Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Four Directions...never lost
I had exactly 20 minutes to get to the Warehouse in Jersey. It would be a feat in and of itself to get there and be able to put on the show of my life. I ran through Times Square, seeing flashing lights off in the distance and breathing hard to catch my breath after many start and stop again sprints. It was time to make a good impression, but I knew I was cutting it close. In my frenzy, though, I had a yogic chant blaring in my ear.
ganesha sharanam, sharanam ganesha; ganesha sharanam, sharanam ganesha
It felt like the first time I had ever really seen Times Square. Off in the distance, the blaring horns of the cabs, the homeless men begging for cigarettes, the bright lights and excitement of the Madam Tussad's, Olive Garden and Cold Stone all in a row waiting for tourist patronage. Feeling beads of perspiration, I tried to ignore the fact that my coat was too heavy for this time of year. It was a gorgeous, yet chilly Spring day. Then, it happened, the combination of the chanting, my racing heart and a tree that I had never noticed before, slowed the shutter of my mind down to simple photos. The bloom of the tree took me back somewhere magical. It was as if I had taken a quantum tranquilizer, and everything progressed like slow moving images. There, plain as day, were the inner lights of humanity on display. Some where dim, some were brightly light with excitement and hope and still others were extinguishing at a rapid rate. Auras on display. The sadness of the human condition was extinguished by the popcorn blossoms in the distance. How long had it been since I watched a tree bloom?
ganesha sharanam, sharanam ganesha!
The chant promised the removal of obstacles, and here was this bright sun and life, as I had never noticed it before, coming towards me. The sadness in the face of some was too much to bear. As I slowly turned, internally, there was a compass that was leading me to the gate I would have to go out of. Everything seemed slower. Even now, the cursor and my typing seem to crash down at an almost stopped rate. I had to hurry, I had to make my bus, I had to run!!!
In the corners of my mind, I remembered how often I would laugh at people who had travel anxiety. This was not an anxiety to leave the City, although I do admit to suffer from separation anxiety when I pack my bags and watch my loved City disappear in the distance. No, this was a community. This was my family, as I had seen them on display in the streets, so asleep, yet so much a part of my experience. I stood in the Port Authority, with the chain stores each beckoning my attention, and the stress of so many faces on parade. That is when it appeared. The knowledge of the four directions that I had brought with me from sweat lodge.
The chief had sprinkled bear claw shavings in the hearth, and said, "Migwich" to the buff, scantily clad farmer boy who carried the molten rocks in. I surpressed my sexual urges and tuned in. She began the ceremony by making a cross with her hand. She began to chant in a native language, which strangely seemed familiar to me. She spoke to us in the darkness of the tent, and all that was seen was burning embers of the bear claw residue. "There was a time when this motion meant the four directions. It was not what was taken from us. It was not symbolic of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. It was the four directions. Mental, physical, spiritual and emotional compasses that provide inner guidance. You can never be lost again, for this will be your compass." Yet, here I was, in the middle of Port Authority with no clue as to where I would go next.
The sweat began to pour down my face. Asking numerous "authorities", I was sent in four directions. Each door I went out of, I would feel the steamy stench of asbestos hit my senses like a truck. Retreating back in the depressed artificial lighting, I remembered that day, that spiritual experience, and the reason that even this 'stress' did not penetrate the way it once would have. "I have to get to Jersey in 20 minutes. I have no idea where I'm going. I will be okay, though," I soothingly said to myself. Mothers with babies ran by, everyone, it seemed expereriencing the confusion I felt. Then it happenened...an opening in the middle of the floor, like a compass. I could hear the explanations, North: giving it away; South: compassion and healing; East: the door to the direction you are headed; West: the door of intention. Intention...I looked at the rushing people, and felt a little less like a New York in that instant. Something greater than myself, spun my heel in a semi circle and I almost went skipping across the high gloss tile, down the escalator, gliding miraculously to my gate.
When my ticket was collected, the chant slowed down to a halt. Breathing heavily, I took a deep breath. Not sure of what had transpired, and lost in thought, the bus slowly pulled out of the gate. We were in the sunlight once again, and I could see the stadium off in the distance. "How long had I had this compass?" I wondered, as the last beads of sweat formed on my brow. Time. The human construct, yet necessary barometer of measurement, had been on my side this time. Perhaps I was leaving the tribal beats of the City drum, but for a brief moment, I was connected by something greater than myself, and I found the direction within. The one that is infinitely connected to Source. For the first time in a long time, I felt lucky. I did.
Labels: New Jersey, Rumi, sobriety, spiritual, spring, Sweatlodge
Saturday, April 07, 2007
April showers bring crushes and flowers
Spring, believe it or not...is here. Here are a couple of rantings that went on in my head for three different men: He is soooo cute! I love the way he wears his hair slicked back. He looks so debonair. Just the fact that I’m using a pseudo French word to describe him hints at the desperation with which I try to be sophisticated for him.
This one has a smile that would melt Tibetan ice caps. He has dimples that twinkle and match his sunny personality and bright periwinkle eyes. He is just the right height. He has a great body and obviously takes good care of himself. He is also an older man. I feel a mixed sense of exhilaration and taboo just having this sort of connection. My friend sees the way that we talk to one another, and later whispers, “you guys have this weird thing” and I nod while giggling uncontrollably, because SHE sees what I am feeling!
Wait! I am not sure if I remember that guy from long ago. I feel as if we somehow met a while back. He has movie-star good looks. It is hard not to dive in his arms and ask him to make out with me behind the coffee machine. I could be reduced to a sniveling child around him. It is not just the fact that he can wear a muslin shirt with khakis with equal grace and ease as he can a tuxedo, or the fact that he is well-traveled and elegantly gentle. He is enigmatic, and I’ve always been a sucker for a riddle.
[I am grossed out with myself for even wanting so many men in such an animalistic way. I try to be ‘breezy’.] Oooo, no this is the one! I feign indifference when he tells me that he wants to talk to me, or asks me where his hug is. It is the fact that even men stop still when they see him. That when he takes me in his arms, even THEY catch their breath. Like, my stock goes up just being around him! I see the looks. The other men will look at me in a way that says, “wait?! Did you just KISS him? Is there something else I should know about you?” I SEE it. The times when it is most obvious is when I am wearing my warm up pants and mismatched jacket. When my tussled hair is wrestled back with a single band, and I wear moisturizer and lip gloss. I think, “He gets me. He knows that the exterior is not important.” THAT is when I feel inspired to take it up a couple of notches’ and let him know that I’m capable of looking sooo much better. That sounds so cheesy, but I keep it in to remind myself of what happens to me when I am around him. All of my reason goes out the door, and I find myself saying, “Are you REALLY coming to my next show? Oh my g! I just got butterflies. Wait, no, my phone is just on vibrate!” I feel like we are 3 inches away from kissing every time.
I breathe. I remember the feeling of overwhelming love that I had in the sweatlodge. It is normal, it is lust, this time. I can have something deeper and more beautiful...like I experienced feeling so many distinct energies meeting in the matrix of love in that sweaty tee-pee last spring. As I step back, that old familiar lust gnaws at me. I try to remember how good it feels to maintain my focus on enlightenment, but I just imagine my scent rubbed on the last one's linen sheets as I unabashedly run around how God made me in his Flatiron District loft. Maybe he’s really dim-witted, I hope, as I briskly walk away, attempting to shake it off.