Raving Violet

chatting with the dead

2012-01-28T17:32:00.000-08:00

So, boo hoo, my life was big many sad for big many years having lost my parents at an early age. I believed in their existence in the “beyond” but belief (which means “to give life/leif to”) is not the same as knowing. You need tangible experience to feel something in your bones. You can’t just read about surgery if you want to become a surgeon.

I was lonely. Depressed. Anxious. Sad. Angry. You name it, I felt it. I know for a fact that the tortured relationships (the torture was all mine, I assure you) I had with distant, detached, self-involved men were an outcropping of the pain I felt. When you’re miserable it’s not possible to attract really happy people. However the torment I went through with each relationship served to heal me as I unleashed volatile emotions that had been kept locked inside for so long. The entanglements were vehicles of my healing, even though they were painful, like having a bullet removed from a wound on the battlefield. I’ve learned to trust everything in my life. That doesn’t mean I accept everything that comes my way, I use discernment and set boundaries. But when I choose to be with someone, or choose to be a certain way (even miserable) I own it. I chose those relationships. I am no victim.

Over the course of the decades I had sought healing via channeled messages. Diane, a dear friend, bought me psychic readings on my birthdays. My overweening forever desire was to be with my life partner and Diane understood this, along with my need to communicate with my parents. On some level I’ve been searching for my mate since losing Daddy when I was five. I get this. And yet I’ve never chosen a relationship in which I was nurtured, loved, supported and safe, as I was with my father.

One channeler told me that while I know what true love is, having had it with my parents, it is scary to me because I associate it with loss. Bingo. Sure. So I bid low and as a result my dating choices only incurred more hurt. I was afraid of the Wizard of Oz, yet I was on the Yellow Brick Road. I associated love with longing. The carrot always dangled in front of me.

I now see as an older, wiser and much happier person how the path of pain has led me back to myself. How each tormented relationship helped me to excavate my past, unearth the sadness, grief, and despair that I’d evolved since my father’s death when I was five and was never able to express since I was so busy tending to my mother and her grief. I’m a very empathetic person but the one person I was not empathetic toward was me. I was stoic and soldiered on.

Step by step I’ve built a new me through introspection and hard, personal work. I’ve invested in my happiness.

But as important as all the emotional tussling in the trenches that I’ve done has been to my evolution, so has the direct contact with my parents that I eventually experienced via mediums.

Years ago I went to a psychic in Red Bank, NJ courtesy of my friend Diane. This medium could feel my mother’s presence. That was great, cause I sure as heck couldn’t. “You’re her little air (Aquarius) baby. I feel all this love.” I started tearing up. She felt my father’s energy, and said it was very different from my mother’s. She said, “They want to prove to you that they’re here.” This is what noted medium James Van Praagh calls “survival evidence mediumship”, information brought through that only the deceased could know, and only you can verify. Saying “I feel all this love” rang true but is neither specific nor verifiable, and therefore not survival evidence mediumship.

She said, “Your mother is saying you had a funny dog.” This was ridiculously wrong since I had no dog, funny or not (which was a real sore point from my childhood). She continued, “And you hurt your right leg when you were younger. Your parents are offering this as proof that it’s really them.” I shook my head. This was wrong, too. I broke my right arm, but there was no leg injury. She wasn’t proving anything to me except that she was bubbly and animated.

As with many accurate readings (for I did feel this woman was connected to spirit) this does not mean that every word of it is accurate even if some or most of it is. The two meanings did not become clear to me until later, as is often the case with psychic messages. Sara was correct on both counts, the dog and the leg. My sophomore year of college I twisted my ankle while being hazed for a humor organization. I was wearing sneakers and my rubber sole screeched and stuck on the linoleum at an ice cream parlor. I was charged by my tormentors with hopping on one leg as I shouted “Ha ha ha ha ha!” in the crowded shop (yes, totally embarrassing). As I started to topple I broke my fall with the objects in my trajectory, a man’s buttocks. I desperately grabbed both of them. Imagine his shock as he waited for his cone at the counter. My humiliation was complete.

I had to go to the hospital. My ankle was terribly swollen and I needed crutches. So when my parents said “leg” it didn’t register because to me the event was “ankle”. However this injury is undoubtedly what they were referring to. It was a serious wound and the pain in my foot and ankle malingered for years.

I hurt my left knee badly about four years ago in a serious bike accident. Someone chided me because I wasn’t wearing a helmet. I said, “Well what the hell difference would it have made, my head was fine!” I had just lost my job and health insurance and was trying to figure out whether I needed to continue my Cobra payments to get further treatment (i.e., surgery). ER X-rays showed no breaks, but there’s lots of stuff in the knee that can be seriously compromised, like cartilage and ligaments. There’s a real potpourri of junk in that joint.

I prefer alternative healers to regular docs and I asked my chiropractor whether he thought my knee would get better or need surgery. He referred me back to myself (which made me love him even more). I felt I was getting better and that I would rather treat this naturally and not worry about surgery. He asked me, “Have you ever had a serious sprain before?” I thought about it then remembered the ankle. “How long did the pain last?” he asked. I froze as I recalled the details of the injury. “Ten years.” I had wondered at the time whether my ankle would continue to hurt my entire life. Eventually, I noticed it was gone after a full decade of twinges and discomfort. I discontinued Cobra (that pricey snake!) and proceeded with my medical intuitive, chiropractor and acupuncturist, which cost considerably less than the monthly mafia extortion bill.

I also had a big “a-ha” moment when I figured out what my mom was talking about regarding the “funny dog”. When I was quite small I had a white, fuzz-covered battery-operated mechanical dog. It had a collar and a leash and I took it with me on the sidewalk. It hopped slooowwly, so crossing the street was a rather treacherous undertaking, but doggie and me made it across with my mother’s supervision.

The “heavenly contact” with my folks still felt ephemeral to me, wispy at best. Yes, it was pleasant, I believe this medium was the real deal, and I could sense what she was saying about my mom and dad. But I was seeking more concrete contact. That’s why I studied with James Van Praagh. I had seen him on TV and found him to be remarkable. He is. He has a stunning gift. When he gave messages from the other side to the bereaved they broke down with recognition and gratitude. The messages offered the possibility of healing by proving that our loved ones really are here. They still think. They still feel. They see us. They love us. They do their own healing and growing when they get to the other side. They are simply on a different wavelength. You need 3D glasses to see them; a stethoscope to hear them. We don't question that the heart beats just because we don't normally hear it without an amplifier. Daily meditation and prayer facilitates the process of connection with Spirit, including your own guides and teachers on the other side. If you’re texting all day and listening to hip-hop, there’s not much of a chance that they'll get through.

My first class with James was at the Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, NY. It’s a great new agey joint where you can take everything from watercolor painting to remote viewing. They’ve got it all, plus it’s on a gorgeous, magical campus. It was a large group and we did exercise after exercise. I kept hoping he would stop the class and say, “Wait! There are two people here who absolutely must talk to their daughter!” It never happened. We did transmogrification (staring at a partner in pitch dark and watching their etheric form shift), worked with pendulums, and read each other’s energy fields. I learned a lot. At the end of the weekend class James said, “How many people were hoping to get a reading?” There were a good 150 people in the room. At least half of us raised our hands. “And WHAT’S the title of this class? ‘Developing Your Intuition’. YOUR intuition!” he sassed. He then proceeded to give two hours of emotional readings. I did not get a message.

Shortly after my bike accident (which was shortly after I lost my job, and health insurance) I started ramping up my spirit activities. I’d been to my first séance the previous October. During the séance I went into a light trance, and received intriguing messages from two mediums (which I’ve detailed in other chapters). I was so impressed by the messages that when the man who gave me one said, “You should come back. Phyllis and I are running the next séance,” I jumped at the opportunity.

The two people out of a huge group who had messages for me were running the next meet? You betcha I’m going! I couldn’t wait. I was starting to feel a real, tangible connection with spirit. I returned with my cousin (her dad Pete was my mom’s brother). I was really hoping Genia would get a message. She didn’t. I didn’t. At the very end her dad and brother came through. Then my mom arrived. The whole gang was there. The medium said dramatically to me, “Your mother and her mother are swirling around you, caressing your cheeks and saying how lovely you are!” All the swirling and caressing took me aback, since my mother did little swirling in physical life. I was more used to my mother’s criticisms. The teenaged smartass in me came right back to life, recreating the dynamics of our relationship. I thought “Oh yeah? I’m lovely, huh? How bout all the times you called me fat!” The medium continued. “Change is coming!” she asserted. “Your mother says that change is coming! A new relationship is starting next month. Are you in a relationship now?” “That would be a resilient, resounding, resplendent no.” “And in February and March, you will be creatively rewarded. What do you do?” She was relieved to discover that I was a creative type and that she was receiving accurately. What Mom didn’t mention via the medium was “creatively rewarded” in February or March of which year. They’re not so specific about time on the other side. Maybe they don’t have watches.

The next month I met a man. Someone unlike anyone I’ve ever dated, someone unlike anyone I’ve ever wanted to date. Lo! He was not a depressed, angry, obnoxious, immature, narcissistic artist. He was nice. Pleasant. Clean. Affable. I was not swept off my feet, though he cuts a very dashing figure, but I spent hours talking with him. Or rather, at him. I didn’t let the poor fellow get a word in edgewise since he was the first guy who ever listened to me. There were no sparks that night, but as the evening wore on I found myself increasingly attracted to him as I grew aware that he was a compassionate human.

Those sparks I’ve had in the past? Warning signs! Danger, karma ahead! Yet I needed each and every one of those experiences to learn and grow, so I have not one regret. Meeting and spending time with this man was a peaceful experience. I was used to angst, longing, drama and pain. Now I know “sparks” mean “fire” = “smoke” = “burn” = “ouch”. I’m tired of ouch.

I was incredibly comfortable with this man from the minute I met him. Within a few days I realized all the prophetic signs I’d been collecting over the decades regarding “Him” strongly pointed to “him”, the fellow I had just met. This is the guy I’ve been waiting for all my life but the spirits had encouraged me to forget about since I had much to do and experience before I met him. “I cannot divulge the place and time when this relationship will occur.” said the channeled spirit. I thought they were being coy, but now I understand why. I would have slit my wrists had I known true love was coming this late in life. I wanted to get married at 18 (to who, I don’t know). Now I’m looking at a wedding that may well be sponsored by AARP. “The relationship you seek stretches out a bit further…” The spirits have some sense of humor. My game is already in overtime and I'm still waiting for the other team to arrive.

When the relationship did not commence immediately I became restless. I was already old in my mind when I met him, so once I figured out he was “the one” I was like "Chop chop, let’s go, there’s no time to waste!" But the relationship did not proceed. I became desperate for psychic information. I was convinced I was right. Ten years prior to meeting him I dreamt of exactly how we met, in almost photographic detail. I can recall that dream like it was yesterday.

One of my dreams had him coming up to me, asking if I was single, which I had to think about before I happily affirmed “yes!” He quietly and seductively said “Finally.” Then he walked away. What? But he came back later in the dream, with a vengeance (I will not go into the torrid details). This dream was prophetic. We met. He walked away. I’m still waiting for him to come back.

I went to more séances. It was now March. I got a message from my grandmother saying I needed to go to school. School? I’ve been done with school since college, so what the hell was she talking about? I concluded that the medium was off her rocker. Humoring her, I asked the medium what kind of school since the whole premise seemed absurd. “I don’t know but she was very insistent, ‘Go to school! Go to school!’”

I’m skeptical about most of the messages I receive, and with good reason. You don’t want to take anything at face value before you’ve assessed the source and whether or not the message resonates with you. Never give your discernment away, your common sense, or your power to someone else just because they have visions, even if they’re accurate visions. We all get our own visions; whether or not we pay attention to them is another story. Our dreams talk to us, sometimes we’ll have a “feeling” (this is our gut, talking to us) Some people hear (clairaudient) others see (clairvoyant) and some know/feel (clairsentience). Always run other people’s messages by your own internal GPS system. There’s no better expert on you than you. We must trust ourselves, our abilities, and our intuition and stop looking constantly outside for pills, experts, and consolation. The Kingdom of Heaven is Within. When you find it inside, all gifts will reflect outside. The movie projector is internal. Life is the screen on which our thoughts manifest.

I took a nap the day after the séance and woke up knowing exactly what my grandmother meant. I was so excited, I cannot tell you. That medium was not a kook. My intuition had worked out the problem, and/or I communed with Nana while I was napping. I don’t remember the dream or conversation. I just knew that “school” meant two different psychic development classes that I was genuinely interested in taking but didn’t feel I could afford since losing my job. I fought with myself but my cousin Genia encouraged me to take them. I said “It’s counterintuitive when my income is gone!” She said, “No, it’s totally intuitive. You have to do it.” She and my grandmother were exactly right. Those courses deepened my connection to the spirit world and my own intuitive abilities. The second one changed my life.

I went back to Omega for a second class with James Van Praagh, this time for five days. There were 140 people in the group. I gave up hope that I’d get a reading from this guy, but it dawned on me at some point that I was with 140 white witches from whom I might. The class was filled with working mediums and psychics. I didn’t think I was mediumistic or even particularly psychic. This class started to change my mind. We had an afternoon off (which pissed me off since I thought I’d paid for five full days). James encouraged us to form practice development circles, and said if we were serious about developing our intuition we should "sit" or "hold circle" every week. He attended a circle for something like 27 years, and he was born powerfully psychic. Concert pianists practice every day. Psychic skills are a muscle that needs to be developed and maintained like any other.

I wanted my money’s worth so I organized a group, pronto. We met in our gorgeous classroom with huge windows surrounded by trees and a field. There were about eight or ten of us gals (as you can guess, the class was predominantly women, with a few exceptions). We decided to focus on one person, with one medium doing the reading. I volunteered to be read. I wrote my mother’s name (Nina) on a piece of paper and clutched it in my lap. A Russian medium sat across from me and concentrated. She was a court translator during the day, from Polish to Russian to English. At night, she translated from living to dead. I loved it. She closed her eyes and spoke with her thick accent.

“I’m getting letter M as in Mary.” Well, close, but no cigar. I thought maybe she was picking up M as in Mom, or M as in Mother, and M is awfully close to N (maybe her psychic Russian hearing wasn’t so good?) but didn’t want to give it to her. You don’t want to “feed” the medium with answers or leads. So I fed the medium. “Try letter N as in Nancy.” She saw an image of me with blonde hair, red lips and nails. This was a character I played in a musical comedy right after my divorce. It seems my mother saw the show from the other side, which amazed me. I trust she had good seats. But that was all the Russian got.

Another woman in the circle came up and whispered in my ear “is it Nina?” I looked at her amazed and nodded. I didn’t know any of these women, really, maybe a first name or two, but there was no intimate knowledge about me by either medium. This woman ran with the reading. I felt bad for the Russian gal since she’d been usurped. It turned out she was in awe of the reading I was about to receive, and one which would change my life.

She kept her eyes closed. “Oh, I feel terrible. I’m weak, I’m so weak. And I’m in pain, ow! Ow! Oh, my stomach…my blood is bad, oh, oh, and it’s a MESS! What a mess…” She sat uncomfortably with all this, since unfortunately she experiences what she’s picking up. She didn’t name my mom’s disease, but she very specifically described my mother’s symptoms toward the very end.

“Are you aware your mother was speaking with people on the other side when she was near the end?”

“Uh, no. She was babbling incoherently.” Her body was riddled with the toxicity created by pancreatic cancer, not to mention the morphine and other drugs I administered to help alleviate her discomfort. They didn’t seem to work. She was in massive pain.

“Do you have a sister?” “Yes.” “Older?” “Yes.” “Is she sensitive?” “Yes.” “Sensitive to the point of being a pain in the ass?” “Yes.”

The medium then proceeded to speak the name of the special man I’d met months before. She said it three times. Loudly. Clearly. I was dumbstruck. My mother had told me at that December séance that a relationship was going to start. I met the man, but the relationship did not commence. So, when were the games going to begin? She said no more on the topic so I let it go. I was in awe of the fact that my mother was speaking so clearly through this woman. Mom was here! The hair was standing up on my arms.

Mom communicated via the medium so naturally, so casually, that I felt as if I was having a “live” (forgive me) conversation with the dead. I wasn’t sad, I was excited, as if I was having lunch with her. We were back in the groove of our normal relationship. Once the ball got rolling I felt like Helen Keller when she started understanding Annie Sullivan’s sign language messages…Mom and I were talking! I could feel her. This medium conveyed her personality, vocabulary, her cultural milieu and energy. She said “Your mother is an excellent communicator.” Of course she is, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree! Mom was very intelligent, an English major, and a lot of fun.

“She’s is pointing to the ground saying “When I died, you were down here. Now, you are up here.” She lifted her hand high in the air, still keeping her eyes closed. “She wishes she could have done the same for herself.” I got choked up. Ever since getting sick my mom had only become nicer. I was so used to her nitpicking and criticizing me. I know she was doing the best she could at the time based on her beliefs. We all are. I also know that learning, healing and productivity continues on the other side. We don’t lose who we are. Energy cannot be created or destroyed. It’s physics. We are energy. Consciousness is energy. We simply transform and shapeshift into our Light Body. We lose nothing. We gain everything.

The message regarding my growth gave me insight that I wasn’t just a poor, sad little orphan. I was this kind of cool woman whom my mother was complimenting. She acknowledged my growth. Which means she was watching me. Which means that she’s connected to me, tangibly, in real time. Which means I’m not alone. Nothing has brought me closer to experiencing my belief in my parent’s non-physical existence than the live demo via mediumistic contact.

“Your mother has all your cats.” I choked, “WHAT?” My mother wouldn’t even let me get a hamster. I didn’t believe it until the medium accurately described all my dead cats. My mom is saddled with them for all eternity (or until she incarnates again). Talk about karma! I think it’s hilarious. That’s what she gets for not letting me have a dog, or a hamster when I was growing up. Now she’s coated in heavenly cat hair and taking out the etheric kitty litter, metaphorically speaking.

“Now she’s showing me a tray of brownies. Did she bake brownies for you?”

No, she didn’t. This was a miss. Then as the memories flooded back, it hit me like a ton of bricks. My mother was reminding me of things I’d forgotten. I used to make brownies for her! Well, actually, they were for me, but that was the conceit, that they were for “her”. My mom was more a lemon meringue pie/baklava gal, but who has the time to make them? My mom went to PTA meetings when I was in fourth and fifth grade and I figured out how easy it was to make brownies from scratch using Baker’s chocolate. The house smelled of baked goods when she returned at 10pm. We had a little party upon her return.

As amazing as all these details were I was dying to know more about the MAN whose name my mom said three times. I trepidatiously asked if she had anything more to say about him. The medium repeated my question to her out loud, then repeated my mother’s answer, “Hasta la vista”. GOODBYE? I felt punched in the stomach, and I railed against the obvious meaning. Why mention his name if he wasn’t relevant? Why tell me I’m going to meet him right before I meet him if he's of no consequence! The medium said “Is this someone you need to say goodbye to?” “NO!”, I said vehemently. Hell to the no!

“Your mother is showing me the magician’s trick where he pulls the tablecloth out from under a place setting.” I said, “Accurate”. I was totally on my mother’s wavelength and understood the images and symbols she was communicating via the medium. Many messages are symbolic, like a game of charades, and I interpreted my mother’s intentions at lightning speed. This man’s entrance into my life was foretold accurately, down to the month. I met him on cue, the carrot was dangled, and then it was yanked away. Man, but no relationship. The metaphor was perfect for how frustrated I felt. The rug had been pulled out from beneath me. I had the eggs, milk, butter, flour and sugar, but no cake.

“She’s showing me a puppy chasing its tail.” "Accurate," I replied. While I had just got a puppy a month ago, I knew she wasn’t referring to that. My mother always told me “Don’t chase them! Let them chase you.” Ha. I was never much of a “Rules” girl. I kept reaching out to him, simple emails, and initially he responded. It was friendly, but it didn’t progress. I kept trying to engage him, without pushing. I certainly couldn’t let him know what I believed. Talk about a kiss of death, “Don’t you know you’re my husband?” No, he did not. I was the puppy chasing its tail. It was humiliating. I stopped emailing.

Then my mother switched gears and rolled fast forward. “You need to be patient. He’s not going to get it at first. But when he does, it’s going to move like gangbusters” Gangbusters is a word right out of my mother's lexicon. The medium laughed, “Now your mother is singing “I’m Gonna Wash that Man Right Out of My Hair”. Is there someone else you need to get rid of, first? “Apparently so.” I replied. It was only 8 months since I’d been with the famous old man and he was still in my thoughts. “Okay, point taken.”

“She’s showing me King Kong now, do you understand this?” “No, I don’t” “She’s showing me Tarzan, does this make sense?” “None.” I still haven’t quite figured that one out yet. We loved old movies, my mom and I, but not King Kong and Tarzan.

My friends think I’m crazy for believing that this relationship will come to fruition after all this time. I don’t believe in him. I believe in me. I trust my dreams, my feelings, my gut, my intuition. I received a highly accurate description of him from a psychic a full year before I met him. I trust the myriad messages from other people, many of them strangers, that point to him, even though they have variously described him as a blonde and a brunette. Those are details. I discern the heart of the message, what they have in common, not the minutiae that is off. If a group of psychics had him in the next room they would each describe him variously. It’s a game of “Telephone”. And for those who don’t already know, “hasta la vista” means “see you later”.

But most important, my mom came back to me. I can feel her now, and I know from another psychic that she’s the one knocking around my kitchen (the cabinets pop open by themselves). One psychic feels she sits at the foot of my bed at night. This is a lovely image, and it sits well with me. The “other world” is right here. It’s not up there or down there. It’s right here. Just like our bodies are made up of cells we cannot see and the air is filled with microwaves, x-rays and cell signals we do not feel. We know them by their works. They are there. You have to align with their frequency.

If one is to learn the subtle workings of spirit one must become subtle oneself. I feel connected to my mother now. I know she saw me vacuuming this morning when feathers were flying in my bedroom (my ancient down blanket finally burst). It was a scene right out of “The Sound of Music” when Maria plays with the children or “Fanny and Alexander” (one of my favorite films) when the nanny has a pillow fight with her young charges late on Christmas night. Magic. And a mess.

Feathers can symbolize Angels. I highly recommend Lorna Byrne’s book “Angels in My Hair” if you want to get a hands on understanding of how prayer and communion with spirit works. It’s complex. It’s mysterious. It’s stunning. Lorna has been seeing and communicating with angels since she was a child. Most people thought she was a moron. Read the book and decide for yourself.

Whereas in the past I missed my mother, now I love my mother. It’s in real time, and it’s a huge difference. My friend Bill invited me last minute last night to see “Wit” on Broadway, starring Cynthia Nixon. I wasn’t particularly in the mood to see a play about a woman dying of cancer. Bill’s mom died of cancer when he was young, as did mine. I had writing to do and I was exhausted, having been up til 2am the previous night, not my usual bedtime.

Here’s how I made my decision. I was doing the laundry yesterday (and I’ll be doing it again today with all those feathers in my duvet cover). My building’s laundry room is in the basement and I passed by the superintendent’s office. It was empty, but the TV was on and there was a bald, skinny woman wearing a baseball cap. I identified Cynthia Nixon and knew that “look” from “Wit” because I tried to watch the HBO version of it but didn't like it. I haven’t had TV in three years, and I don’t read the paper. I didn’t know there was a revival of the show on Broadway starring Cynthia. But a “flash” came to me “Oh, she’s doing ‘Wit’”. Thirty minutes later my pal Bill invites me to the show. This is synchronicity, and I know enough now to take the hint and follow the Yellow Brick Road. Spirit gave me a preview of the evening on my super's TV.

I rallied my energies, painted my face (even though I suspected I’d cry it all off) and met Bill. The play is 90 minutes, no intermission, and I remained unmoved for the first 60 minutes. “Wit” is about a very smart, very proud academic who is humbled and broken from pain, being a patient, and facing her own death. Her doctors are academic and cold like herself. She’s a John Donne scholar (“Death, Be Not Proud”) and deals with cancer via her intellect.

As she degenerates the only thing that matters is the compassion she receives from her primary care nurse, someone she deems “not too bright”. Her pride disappears as her fear and vulnerability come to the fore. An old friend comes to visit at the end and there are sweet moments of nurturing and of humor. The tears were pouring down my face by now, but I shrieked a loud gasp of a laugh when the children’s bedtime story being read to Vivian (the patient) was peppered by amusing commentary by her friend.

When you hold back your sorrow, you hold back your capacity to feel joy, as well. I let them both rip. Laughing and crying blend into each other now, different sides of the same coin.

I know deep joy because I allowed my innards to be excavated by deep pain, my hardness softened by sorrow. The pitfall to avoid is not to let your wounds become covered over by scar tissue. Keep your heart bravely open. The bombs that explode and devastate only make your heart cavity Bigger. Keep it Big.

I’ll close with an end quote from the movie “Kama Sutra” where love and loss are intricately tied.

“Knowing Love

I will allow all things to come and go

To be as supple as the wind

And take everything that comes with great courage

My heart is as open as the sky.”

I Remember Mama

2012-01-24T19:09:00.000-08:00

For a long time she was absent from my life. Her loss was symbolized by a burning hole in my heart; a bleeding, weeping, gaping wound.

My mother died just as my peers were starting out in life. I was supposed to be starting out too. It was a month before my college graduation when she shed her mortal coil. Kids and their families were celebrating their accomplishments en masse, planning their lives, their moves, jobs, relationships and futures. I organized her cremation while she was still dying of cancer in my sister’s apartment. Everything I knew and loved was ending. My life came to a screeching halt.

I was alone the day of my graduation. All my friends were with their families. I had no one to celebrate with. Not that I felt like celebrating. The enormity of the ceremonies and festivities couldn’t have rubbed in anymore how alone and distraught I was. Thousands of people were milling about in celebration while I was in despair. It was pouring torrential rain, the sky was black. I reflected the weather. I was raining too. My face and chest were wet from the precipitation pouring from storm clouds under my brows, blurring my brown eyes so that they could barely see through the downpour I was generating. The water and my emotions were one. I was dizzy with despair. No one could tell. And no one cared. People were too busy running under their umbrellas, laughing, smiling, hugging. Too busy planning and celebrating. I didn’t stop raining for years.

I lurked around my pretty college town, dressed up for I don’t know what since I didn’t go to any ceremony. Not the big one in the morning, not the smaller one at my dorm in the afternoon where people received their diplomas. My dorm House Masters, a very sweet older couple, knew of my distress, and my decision not to attend. They mailed my diploma to me in a tube.

I wore the dress I wore to my high school graduation, and a new white denim Esprit jacket I bought myself as a graduation gift. I took myself out to lunch. There was a girl from my dorm with her dad at the restaurant. I didn’t want them to see me. I ate quickly and left. I didn’t want anybody to see me.

Mom had worked so hard to get me here. She’d missed out on her own college graduation because she had to drop out of school to support her parents when her dad got cancer. I went to a very prestigious school and my mother lived vicariously through me. The ivy mystique epitomized college for her. Perfection. Excellence. All I felt was anxiety, depression and sadness since she was dying for the last two of my four years. I worked hard, I performed in comedies and musicals, I put on a stoic face. Some people actually thought I was funny, cheerful and happy. They forgot I’m an actress. And strong. I forged huge walls and buttresses to keep me from falling down. Or getting close to anybody. I felt alone, like The French Lieutenant’s Woman in her hooded cape, and I plodded along. Mom’s impending demise was always the prize at my finish line.

Mom pushed me to work hard and be the best, always. She was a relentless taskmaster, to me and to herself. I’ve since learned how important and healing it is to choose gentleness over the perpetual crack of a whip. She paid the ultimate price for her fighting attitude toward life. I believe it created her cancer and her death. But it softened her, too. It took the fight right out of her. The cancer won and she could finally let go. I think it was almost a relief to her after pushing so hard for so many years, a widow with two girls. Life was a battlefield of sorts to her. I felt closer to her in the last six months of her life than I ever had. She was in massive pain, but she was nice. No more criticizing. She didn’t have to be vigilant anymore.

Not everyone thinks that losing a parent is so bad. In fact, I can’t tell you how sick I was of hearing “Well, nothing’s worse than losing a child.” Fuck them, I thought, stabbed through the heart by those words. People act as if a parent’s pain is the only one that matters, the only one that’s really deep. How does anyone know I didn’t love my mother more than someone loves their kid? Is this a competition? There was no pain worse than this loss in my life, the second of my beloved parents to go, and I’m not submitting my suffering for comparison and review.

If an old man’s only company is his goldfish, and he loves and talks to it, when that goldfish dies, that’s the worst thing that could happen to him. How dare anyone judge that as insignificant because it’s “just” a fish and an old man? Anyone ever see “Harry and Tonto” with Art Carney, about an old man and his cat?

There are parents who do not mourn when their children die. There are parents who never parented. There are parents who kill their progeny.

Some say, “It’s not the natural order of things! Children are not supposed to die before their parents!” Well, they do. Children are not supposed to be born sick and deformed. They are. People plain old die. We’re given no guarantee or warranty when we’re born. There is no “supposed to” in this world. There is only what is. And what we do with it.

Even though I believed in life after death, I was now two for two losing my parents. Dad died when I was five, Mom when I was 22. Their etheric “survival” was no comfort for me. They were gone. I told a therapist I was sad because “I don’t have parents.” He argued, “Yes, you do.” Oh, that was real psychological comfort. I never asserted I was spontaneously generated in a petri dish. Idiot. So, if I have parents, jerk off, how exactly do I contact them for conversation or comfort? I didn’t go back to him.

Grief was the backdrop for my world. I was lost in a vortex of despair.

My healing came through spiritual seeking. I got channeled readings from the friend of a neighbor, one apartment away. My neighbor was a mess herself, in her 40s, overweight, depressed, neurotic, but she was good to me. We shared a belief in the spirit world. When her friend Lynda came up from North Carolina looking nothing so much as Pippi Longstocking at 45, complete with freckles, red hair in pigtails, and a gap between her front teeth, this changed my life. Lynda was in New York to shop her new psychic novel around. She was also a channel for a spirit called Milarepa. I didn’t know Milarepa. I didn’t know channeling.

Channeling is when someone goes into a deep meditative state or trance and brings in high-level spiritual energies. This is not the same as being psychic or mediumistic when any level of information (or spirit) can theoretically come through. The purpose of a channeled session is to educate humanity on a profound level, not to predict. It’s Sermon on the Mount time, not “should I date this guy?” Typically the same entity or entities will come through a particular channel. If you ask a personal question you will get a provocative answer that leads you back to yourself and your ability to choose and learn.

Lynn, Lynda and I sat on Lynn’s bedroom floor with a tape recorder for my first session. Lynda breathed deeply, closed her eyes, meditated and slowly toned 10-20 'om's. Her stilling practice took 5-15 minutes. This country hick, complete with twang, who lived on a farm and had no money, became somebody very different. A soft energy came through and the voice was hard to hear at times. Milarepa was a Tibetan poet and saint. Uh huh. I didn’t care. All I was interested in was what he had to say.

His words were poetic. Careful. Amazingly, this being knew me inside and out. Lynda didn’t know me at all and Lynn didn’t know me that well, she certainly didn’t know the intricacies regarding my past, my parents, and my soul. Milarepa knew it all.

Milarepa was gentle and loving with me, patient when I was obtuse. He gave me meditations to do and prayers to say. He told me it was time to let go of my mother. What did he mean? How could I let go of her? She was gone. I didn’t understand and was frustrated. His words:

“You should now let the entity that you knew as your mother rest, for she at this juncture is weary and has some sorting out to do. That later in your ribbon of lives, your reel of lives, like the movie screen pictures, you will once again encounter your mother and this time the roles will be switched. She has much to learn from your high shining light, and already has benefitted greatly from your beacon. But certain troubles that predated you were laid heavily at your doorstep, so to speak. You had made the decision to help in this regard, prior to joining her in this particular life frame and you were not asked to bear a burden greater than the strength of your shoulders could hoist. However; sleep is now at hand. Know that you did shine your ever bright and lovely beacon and let the weary rest. Let your own heart rest.”

“You told me I must release my mother. I’m not sure in what ways I’m still attached. So what do I release?”

“Imagine that there is a subtle but strong connection of many tendrils. Imagine the physical visualization of two beings connected by many subtle but strengthy tendrils. Imagine that a flow of many intense emotions have been passed through these root-like tendrils. Imagine now, friend Valerie, in your mind that one by one the tendrils do become smaller, smaller, smaller until they are like the breadth of minute threads. Can you with me now visualize this? Close your eyes now and feel a sweet, soft, fragrant, wafting wind blowing away gently those thread-small tendrils. Can you feel this? Imagine now that the soft fragrant wind filled with pink flower petals does softly blow away, one by one, each thread. And so they melt from you like the spider webs in the sun. Can you feel that with me? Imagine that you now do float up a few feet into this flower petal wind, feeling my love embracing and sustaining you. Can you feel that with me? Now I want you to repeat this prayer:

I DO RELEASE, MOST GENTLY, MOST NATURALLY, THE THREAD-SMALL TENDRILS THAT IN THE PAST ONCE CONNECTED ME WITH MY MOTHER. I FORGIVE HER. I FORGIVE MYSELF. I DO NOW RELEASE HER TO THE WIND AND WISH HER WELL.”

Well, this depressed the fuck out of me. My love for her was being reduced to dust and detritus. As if she wasn’t gone enough, he wanted me to diminish my attachment to the 'straws' I was grasping at. It wasn’t possible. I felt betrayed. And he invited me to be reassured by his love. Who was he? Some dead Tibetan peace and love guy? I didn’t know him. I wanted my Mommy, not some meditating saint with his hair in a bun. My attachment to her remained strong. And, apparently, dangerous.

I had really bad hives for decades that started after my mother’s death. It was obviously stress related. No doctor, no antihistamine, whether topical or internal, helped me. I scratched so much my entire body was bloodied and swollen. During another session I asked “How can I eliminate the itching of my skin, how can I lessen anxiety, negativity, and hatred of my body? How can I improve my health, both mental and physical?”

“Dear, Dear Friend Valerie, You are not truly ailing but feeling a fierceness in the skin, in the sensory perceptors most strictly represented by the bodily touch, for it is the vessel of your skin-enclosed being. The physical Valerie, the sensory Valerie is registering this dismay of the very skin that seeks to surround her and detain her from a heavenly escape. This is a tricky time for you. The sadness in the soul, the discomfort of the body, the hatred of the body all are related, and the minute itchings do now signal to you the onset of the spring season, the time of rebirth in a Valerie-season that still seeks the solitude and cold, still comfort of the winter. But you may step into the sunshine now, Child. You must, for your time on Earth is not nearly done, though you wish to sleep and collect the still comfort you believe of the little death, a respite from the world-weary ravages that you perceive mean physical life.

You must now begin to see that this is a fragile time of your life, for without the insight and understanding of the physical signals you could begin to sorely manifest a more serious malady. The ragged itchings, the niggling discomforts are but a timid tapping, a whispered warning. I say to you now---heed it. Do not be in love with the death state, for your wish to be with your mother is like the mourning of a lost dog for his departed master, like a lover mourning a premature death of his beloved, and these feelings of deep loss place you on a dangerous precipice, flirting, unconsciously considering, the leap.

I must tell you now Dear Friend Valerie that this loss does have a power now to suck from you the vital life force. I must say to you now, Friend Child, that you are currently in a danger zone, that on the borderline of your consciousness you do demean your skin-enclosed self and do wish to forego the physical for a time.

I say to you at this juncture that deep inside the bosom of you there is a Force. This Force is a million-fold more strong than the negative, fainting part of you that does now seek to deceive you of its power. The Bright Valerie Force, the Life Seeker, the Smiling Friend in your mirror is many times more strong than the negative mother-self, the temptress that bids you to sleep and shuck your bodily form. The Bright Goddess Self, the Shining Valerie Force needs now your help, needs now your faith, for I implore you once again to get in touch with her in your mirror. She is your Friend. She means you highly well. She may be seen in the shining pupil of your eye. She may be seen in the reflection on the waters of your Eye-Soul.

Look lovingly and long into this beautiful Soul-Eye. Proceed into the sunlight. Find trees. Derive from them strength. Do not be afraid of the Life these Sap High Friends now with you share. Touch tendrils of new grass and rejoice. Say to yourself these words:

I AM THE POWER VALERIE. LIFE IS MY LOVER. I EMBRACE IT. I WELCOME THE SUNSHINE ON MY SKIN. MY SKIN IS LOVELY AND SUN-WARMED. MY BONES ARE STRONG AND ERECT. MY FACE IS THE VISAGE OF THE DIVINE GODDESS. I LOVE MYSELF AS I LOVE GOD’S WORLD. MY PURPOSE IS LIFE. I HAPPILY GIVE FORTH MY LIFE FORCE TO THE ABIDING EARTH. AND EARTH GIVES IT FREELY BACK TO ME.

You may face the death date with a feeling that you have the right to dwell on Earth, happily, and with a freedom of motion, never frozen and afraid of the returning warmth. Yes, meditate. Do so in the sun. Call to me in your prayers. I will abide with you and I will comfort you. Adieu”

Do you understand what a channeled reading is now? How no garden-variety psychic could give you something that deep? There are many compassionate and wise psychics and mediums, but true spiritual channeling is the Voice of God. She comes in many forms, and there are many, many wonderful channelers today. As we continue to grow as humans and merge with our Soul Selves, we will all be channeling all the time, speaking from and thinking with our Hearts.

Milarepa started out all casual in this reading, but then that warning kicked in, telling me that I was passively suicidal, and in grave danger of tumbling into greater sickness and irretrievable darkness. It made me even sadder to realize how sad I was.

http://www.cosmicharmony.com/Av/Milarepa/Milarepa.htm

Years later I am much happier and greatly healed. This is a testament to the beauty of the myriad spiritual teachings I have sought, and the hard, hard work I’ve done seeking joy once more. I know now that I am a Spiritual Rock Star, a Diva, a Queen, Empress, Goddess of Love, Wine and Chocolate, Sex, Meditation, Tap Dancing, and Whimsy. I am Sovereign. Not raining, but Reigning now. Long Live Me.

Love Like the Sun

2012-01-18T21:34:00.000-08:00

My parents had my sister Diane in the 1950s. Despite being thrilled and blessed to have her they wanted more kids but none came. My sister begged my mom for a little sister or brother all to no avail. One day my sister came back from a friend’s house and confessed that she was relieved not to have one. My mother was curious about the change of heart. Turns out the friend’s little brother had been a royal pain in the ass that morning. Son of a bitch, this was the very day my mother was going to announce her pregnancy with me to her. Despite this uncanny glitch, my sister came around quickly enough. There are nine years between us.

I come from a line of untraditional but deeply spiritual people. While there was orthodoxy on both sides (Greek and Jewish) both religions had been rejected by A) my Greek mother and B) my father’s German Jewish parents. I was raised a Theosophist, a Western philosophy based on Eastern religion. No one drank. No one cursed. We were a squeaky clean family living in the middle of New York City.

Then disaster struck. While we were at Sunday school we were informed that my Dad had been killed in a plane accident. My father, a WWII pilot, was Jimmy Stewart’s lead navigator in the European theater. He was simulating WWII dogfights with another pilot at an air show in Canada in original WWII planes when their maneuvers resulted in my father’s death. It was 1968. I was five. Dad was 47. Mom was 47. She never dated again. He was the love of her life and a man of such exceptional caliber that she said “If I met a man half as special as your father, I would consider remarrying.” She never did, so I grew up without a Dad.

Mom soldiered on. Her Greek name was Ismine but she went by Nina, and pronounced it Neye-na, not Nee-na. She was strong, an American born Greek and had already lived through several tragedies (though she never complained about them) including growing up during the Depression. Not that the Depression was a tragedy. But it was hard. Nonetheless my mother said they always felt rich because they had each other. And no one around them had any more. Her father, Christos, worked in a metal plating plant and used to come home on payday and with great fanfare drop the dollars on the ground one by one like they were pennies from heaven. Christos got cancer while my mom was in college. It was WWII and her big brother Pete was doing his part in the Army’s Pacific theater. Her dad could no longer work. Mom, a strong student, dropped out to support her parents.

Years later, she was eight months pregnant with me when her mother, Iphigenia, with whom she was close, also died of cancer. She was giving life and losing it simultaneously; the greatest joy and the greatest sorrow, all in the same sandwich. I've started mulling recently over the fact that I absorbed her sorrow while I was in utero, and I believe it eventually doubled with my own as I started accruing my own losses. Eventually my grief became like a rumbling, massive black hole which threatened to suck in my light and life altogether.

I asked her years later how she felt losing her mom when she was about to have a baby. She said "It was hard. But you just go on." They didn't think about stuff like how they felt back in the old days. They didn't analyze everything. She said the same damn thing about the bomb when I asked her what she and Dad thought about it. She said "We never discussed it." I was like "You didn't DISCUSS it? What DID you talk about? Lunch?" She got irritated with me and said "It ended the war." She internalized most of her stress and took the rest out on me since my sister Diane was off to college four short years after my father’s death. Mom and I were tight. We were so close that one of my high school teachers remarked at a reunion, “You guys were unique. You were a team.”

Her familiarity with loss didn’t make it any easier to take the sudden death of my father, in fact, it sucker punched her, amplifying the pains of the past, like an escalating, emotional clatter. A sorrow full sonic boom. She was shell shocked and didn't know it.

Mom was fiercely protective of me, and she challenged me to champion myself, too, which was embarrassing at times. I wasn’t more than 7 when Mom gave me money to go downstairs and get an ice cream cone on the corner at Howard Johnsons. I got a scoop of peach. The ice cream plopped off of my cone within a lick or two. I trudged upstairs, crestfallen. Mom marched me back downstairs to Lexington Avenue and told me to ask them for a new one. She made me do my dirty work. I was totally appalled by what she wanted me to do, but lo and behold, they gave me another peach ice cream cone. She taught me the value of speaking up. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” she said.

We were decidedly on a budget, living in a rent-controlled apartment. I went to public school, but Mom invested in me by springing for piano and dance lessons, summer camp, acting class. I rarely got an allowance so I had to petition for things I dearly wanted. Most of them I never got (dog, pinball machine, soda fountain, air hockey, horse). When I switched over to private school in 7^th grade mom bought knockoffs of the brands the rich girls were wearing. When one of the girls made fun of my fake Wallabees I was pissed, not embarrassed. Mom gave me everything she could. We were on a First, not Park Avenue, budget.

When a large bank bought our tenement to tear it down and build their new headquarters we were evicted from the apartment. They offered Mom $1,000 to move. She was livid. The building was filled with little old ladies living alone on fixed incomes. There was Sarah, frail both physically and mentally. She had frightened eyes, wore her hair in ringlets and had a pretty doll with ringlet hair, too. I couldn’t understand why she just didn’t give the doll to me, I was the kid, after all. Now that I’m an adult with a fabulous toy collection of my own (I’m more of an Ugly Doll fan) I understand. We give ourselves what we missed out on as a kid. I have a dog. I could still go for the pinball machine, air hockey, horse, and you can substitute a ping pong table for the soda fountain, I’ve backed off the ice cream). Across the hall and downstairs was Gaye, a bold redheaded singer/storyteller with a record to her credit and a brilliant parrot who loved the “CH” sound. He chirped “Gaye go bye-bye CHurCHHHHHH. Ah CH CH CH CHOO, I love you.”

Mom and I visited Sarah Arms once in her new apartment, years after the move. She had Collier’s Syndrome. Her apartment was filled from floor to ceiling with newspaper. We had to slip through a maze of tiny alleys between the piles of neatly stacked newsprint. Sarah’s eyes were more frightened; the doll was still there, in her bedroom. When Mom and I departed, appalled, shocked, we left a trail of chalk white footprints from the dust in the apartment behind us.

As a very sad postscript, I received a strange call decades ago from a social worker looking for my mother. There was a fire in Sarah's apartment, and she was badly, badly burned. Sarah listed my mother, someone she hadn’t seen in years, as her next of kin.

This “big bank” offered all the little old ladies the same thousand dollars. They all took it. Mom was furious on their behalves. What would they do with a thousand dollars? Where would they live? How would they survive and for how long? My mother was indignant and refused their offer. She held out for more. And held out. Eventually Mom was the only tenant left (I was at camp, my sister at college). The big bank used harassment tactics, removing the lock on the front door of the building so there was no security. Drunks slept in the lobby. The bank finally coughed up $25,000 in 1971, which put my sister through MIT. They didn’t expect a fierce battle from a five-foot tall widow with bottle thick glasses.

Growing up my biggest fear was losing Mom. She was the only thing standing between me and the world. My sister was off living her life. My German grandparents were too old to take care of me. Mom constantly prepared me for her death, increasing my anxiety. “If anything happens to me, this is where the papers are, the keys are here, here’s who to call….” Mom was too vigilant, like the sun focused through a magnifying glass, breathing down my back, scrutinizing closely. She didn’t want to lose me, either.

When I was fifteen my worst fear came true. Mom developed adult onset diabetes. It was the beginning of the end, and on some level, we both knew it. I learned to give her the twice-daily shots of insulin. I was loath to stick her with a needle, but we both got used to it, though it never stopped hurting her. She relied on me to break up the monotony and pain of sticking the needle in the same spots over and over when she was alone. Sickness and life were now inextricably tied.

She asked me to keep her company at her diabetes doctor’s office one afternoon after school. He was a very pleasant Latin fellow in his 30s or 40s. He had already seen my mother by the time I arrived. “Can I draw your blood?” he asked me simply, and, rather seductively, I thought. He might as well have said “suck”, Dracula that he was. I was compliant until laying into my mother later. “You tricked me!” I was phobic about having my blood drawn and her pleas to get me tested heretofore had failed. She appealed to the good samaritan in me to accompany her. She was worried I had diabetes, too (I didn’t).

I didn’t fall under the spell of a Latin man again until I saw Raul Julia play “Dracula” on Broadway. I was fifteen and he was, well, a grownup. “I never drink….wine” said the Count. Sigh….I saw Raul first as a youngster. He starred in “Where’s Charley” at the Circle in the Square Theatre and I thought “This guy is good! This guy is so good he could be on TV!” Yes, he was. He was a fine actor and an even finer human being, involved with trying to solve the problem of world hunger. I saw him in one of his last performances before succombing to stomach cancer at age 54. It was a reading at St. Thomas’ Church on Fifth Avenue and 53^rd Street in NYC, where Mariah Carey married Tommy Mottola.

He acknowledged his wife in the audience, and his son “Benjamin”, pronouncing the J as H, and solemnly nodded his head to his young child, who was only 7 when his daddy died. In front of all those people, his fans, his audience, he took the time to acknowledge the ones he loved.

So, my family had the sweet tooth thing going on (is there a Greek person without one?) Considering that no one drank, or did anything, frankly, besides read books and listen to classical music (that would be my German grandparents) sugar was the party going on in our house. Not all the time, by any stretch, since “health food” was our default mode, but it was the devil, lurking. When Mom binged she went all out, having not one napoloen (what is that, 1,000 calories?) but two. Not one candy bar, but three. My mother called it “sinning”.

When I applied to colleges Mom insisted I stay close-ish to home (no “California Dreaming” for me) so we had easier access to each other. This became increasingly vital when we learned my sophomore year that Mom now had pancreatic cancer, which typically kills within six months. She remained a Trojan Woman and insisted I finish out my education at a top college and not transfer back to New York, which I wanted to do to stay close to her. When it came to it, she checked herself in and out of the hospital for surgery. She didn’t want anyone to visit her. She was proud and fiercely independent. She was also terribly proud of me. I heard it mostly from her friends.

A minor medical issue arose for me. After having a huge cavity (so big that my doc called in other docs to gape) filled by the school’s dental clinic it became clear that my wisdom teeth all needed pulling. I went through the school’s medical services covered by my insurance. Turns out they would only do my teeth on an inpatient basis at the hospital, not the dental clinic, requiring general anesthesia and an overnight stay. I was still petrified of needles. My mom was into homeopathy and natural stuff and I was never inoculated. (I imagine there are plenty of kids petrified of needles because they were inoculated). The only needles I knew were from having blood drawn, and for some reason this was extremely painful. I could still “feel” the needle in my arm hours after.

I had a mandatory meeting with a young, cocky anesthesiologist in blue shower cap and booties who described what would happen to me. I had to sign the general anesthesia release (just in case I died) and I’d have to get an IV (a needle left in my body, totally other kind of needle horror) not to mention tubes down my throat so that I didn’t drown in my own blood. He was describing a horror movie. This was “Marathon Man”. “We’ll give you a pill to relax, then we’ll put you under.” I said “What pill?” “A sedative.” “Yes, but which one, Valium?”. He refused to answer, either that, or he patronizingly gave me the chemical descriptor so that I was left in the dark. I was angry. And scared. I exited the hospital in a daze, like I was walking the plank. I walked the “green mile” back to my dorm room in the snow and blistering cold.

I called Mom and explained how frightened I was. How I didn’t like the doctor, didn’t want to get an IV, go under general, have tubes down my throat or stay overnight.

I had just sorta gotten used to handling dentists. Growing up Mom wouldn’t let me get Novocaine, she said the momentary pain of the drilling…what was she saying?! I can’t even remember her argument because THERE IS NONE. There’s nothing worse than having a tooth drilled without Novocaine. (Marathon Man, Marathon Man!) That was horrible, and I had a fair amount of cavities as a kid. So there’s a quick needle prick, some drooling, and weird numbness when you get the shot. (The one time I tried a tiny bit of cocaine I felt like I was at the dentist, oh joy! I was edgy and numb. I don’t understand that drug at all). And if you want a great dentist in NYC, go to Dr. Kenneth Fishman on the east side. Great doc, and he works “pain free”. I have never been more relaxed in a dentist’s chair. I mean calm, happy. Seriously.

But in college the only way my wisdom tooth extraction would be covered by insurance was to check me in overnight with that bastard in blue booties. Mom listened to my rant. She was up to her neck in school bills for me and medical bills for her. I rarely missed a meal in the dining hall because it was already paid for. That’s how we rolled. Get your money’s worth.

She paused then said, “We’ll do it in New York. We’ll find someone to do it over the summer.” I took a breath. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know what the answer was, only that dying young was the problem. I felt so relieved by her generous offer and so, so loved. She was in calm Mom mode (not a constant by any means). There was Nervous Mom, Angry Mom, Critical Mom, Mean Mom, Distracted Mom. And there was Loving Mom. There were many faces of Loving Mom: Playful, Silly, Generous, Understanding, and Profound. This decree from Loving Mom melted my worries like the sun melting snow. I felt expansive waves of relief and gratitude. The bone chilling cold of Boston disappeared. My fear and lonelieness evaporated. There was never a doubt that she was a fiercely devoted and protective mother. But for this moment she allowed her ever present budget “awareness” to be overshadowed by her desire to comfort me.

“Don’t worry, honey. Forget the hospital.” She would pay out of pocket. I wouldn’t have to be killed by that smug young prick at health services.

As a result we had rather a delightful experience getting my wisdom teeth pulled. Mom found a guy on 57^th Street, it seemed like a pretty cushy office, very patrician. I recall the bill being $500. To my mother’s delight none other than Hermione Gingold was sitting in the large, softly lit, wood paneled waiting room. It was more like we were at a cocktail party from the 50’s than a dental event.

I was advised to get two teeth out at a time because it was so painful. “So painful? If it’s that painful I’ll never come back. I want it over with all at once.” Doing it two and two also meant double the recovery time. Doc agreed to do it my way. I sat calmly in his procedure chair high above 57^th street. I directly faced a window and could see skyscrapers. His assistant deftly inserted the needle in my forearm (I declined to watch) and the sodium pentathol hit my vein. There was no pain whatsoever. She told me to count backwards from 10. Big deal, I thought. By 7 the skyscrapers were melting… Blackout. My mother ferried me home in a cab, and I went on Percodan immediately.

I looked pretty damn bad, like Mike Tyson had had his way with me (in the ring) My face blew up to the size of a pumpkin. I had black swollen slits for eyes. My skin was purple and yellow. Mom approached in the dark to put an ice pack on my face and the sound of the plastic bag (I’m talking soft Baggies not loud crunchy plastic) containing the ice hurt my ears. Everything was amplified. I was outright cranky to my mom, something I ordinarily wasn’t. “Go away! Go away!” I whimpered. There was a lotta pain for around two weeks.

During my recuperation I watched some TV, including a new daytime soap opera called “Texas”. I was never a soap fan. There was a fairly large contingent of “General Hospital” loyalists in my high school. I liked “All in the Family.” “Rhoda” “Maude” “Good Times” and “Sanford and Son”. Oh, I liked “Dallas” too. I guess that was a soap opera, wasn’t it?

I fell in love with “Texas”. I was on Cloud 9 watching it, and could not, could not, could not believe where I’d been without it! How could I have missed the sheer brilliance, the joy, the ecstasy, the beauty?

When I watched it again not on Percodan I realized what the problem was.

I revisited my mother’s choice just weeks ago when my darling cat Angela needed some dental work. I had just finished paying off her medical bills from six months prior. Angela does not have medical insurance. Neither do I, for that matter. When my cat Wilbur had a cough it cost me $400 at a clinic, and they couldn’t diagnosis the problem. They wanted to do a tracheael wash (that sounds cheap, doesn’t it?) or some shit, and an x-ray to check for pneumonia? (I think I went for that one…) I don’t remember the details. I stopped at $400, then took him to another doc for $150 when he seemed worse. I could have done more tests, I could have spent another $500 or more easily. They might have figured out what the problem was. They might not have. He died five days later at home. My diagnosis? Death.

So Angela’s tooth was bleeding, of all things, and no, it wasn’t her gums, even though she did have gingevitis. Her tooth, the middle of it, was bleeding when I brushed it. She’s good about me brushing her teeth, but honestly, I just don’t brush em every day. It was obvious she could use a dental cleaning, too. She had one 3 years ago and that was at least $300. Plus they have to put them under general anesthesia, which is a big deal (just ask the blue bootied jerk) and requires blood work which is time, pain and money to see if the animal can “take” the general anesthesia.

So now I’m up against the crapshoot that going to a vet is. Will it be $400 or $1000? What are we looking at? The more you look, the more it costs, the more you find…It’s unnerving, especially if you’re on a budget. I started praying “oh please, just heal, just heal!” I prayed to St. Francis (animal guy) and Archangel Raphael (healing guy). I gave Angela an herbal kitty formula for sore gums. It didn’t go away. Clock ticking, nerves jangling, anxiety simmering.

I decided to trust my intuition, since I’m quite good at that now. There’s a vet at my gym, a really nice gal who’s generously offered free advice since Angela had her problems last summer. She was so consistently kind and considerate, asking after Angela, even when we’re not clients, that I determined to go to her office when I needed a vet, even though her fees are not cheap. But I’d been burned repeatedly by the clinic that starts with a lowball figure but ends up sky high by the time they’re done nickel and diming you (“medical waste disposal fee”?) All those $2 and $300 add up.

I was still taking it one-day-at-a-time watching Angela when Sally came up to me in the gym. “Class is starting, Val!” I was sitting in the lounge, reading my beloved “Sedona Journal of Emergence”, an amazing channeled publication. I knew that was the sign. I reached out to Sally after class, described the situation. Sally thought she knew what it was and said calmly and sweetly that I should have it checked out. I blurted out “Can you do it?” “Sure, I can come in on Friday.” (which she normally doesn’t do) I called her office to book the appointment and asked if they could give me a clue as to cost. They said Sally would cover it with me over the phone.

Sally called that afternoon to discuss the situation. We were looking at an exam, a blood test, x-rays (kitty teeth are tricky!) probable extraction of the bloody tooth, and the possible extraction of other teeth. The estimate was high. I said “uh huh”. While I was on the phone with Sally Angela jumped up on the bed I was standing near, looked up at me, and started purring. Loudly. This was another sign. She was not only telling me that she needed help, but that Sally was the right person to give it.

A friend of mine heard the quote and said that I was crazy to agree to it and that I should haggle. This brought up all my fears and concerns. I didn’t want to haggle, but I called the clinic and got their estimate. It started low, BUT, they insisted on doing the bloodwork this week, the results would come days later, then the surgery would be next week, and I guarantee you, by the time they were done, they would have hit Sally’s quote. They lure you in with a lowball estimate just like those crappy moving companies, and then, when they hold your belongings (or cat) hostage, BAM, here’s the real bill, sucker! Sally said she could do the bloodwork that morning, on the spot, have results within hours, and do the procedure in the afternoon.

It hit me that I was facing my mother’s dilemma back in the day. Do I go “cheap” or do I take care of Angela’s distress (and my own, no one likes two trips to the vet) by going with comfort, with warmth, with a friend? I decided not to worry about the cost, just trust, flow, and do what I had to do. I decided to trust in God, in Myself, in Life, and my decision. If there’s been one thing (and there have been many) I’ve learned since losing my job and health insurance nearly four years ago, it’s that releasing fear and bravely embracing myself, new options, new ways of being, and surrendering to trust…has been magical. I am in a far, far better place than I have ever been.

Angela needed the dentistry, no question. A situation like this can lead to infection and death. It can also lead to not eating (a fate worse than death). On Thursday my pal Fredda wrote me on Facebook, “How do you know Dr. Haddock?” (I had just friended Sally) “She’s my Jezebel’s doctor!” Jezebel is a very intelligent, witty and entertaining African Gray Parrot, and the apple of Fredda’s eye. When Jezebel poops she says “Mommy has to clean it up!” (Jezebel has her own FB page, btw). This was more confirmation that I was going to the right person. Another sign that I was on the right track. I can’t tell you how many different vets I’ve been to over the decades. It’s always been exhausting, expensive, and quite often… quite sad.

Fredda booked an appointment with Sally contiguous to mine so we could all hang out, me, Fredda, Angela and Jezebel. I hadn’t seen Fredda in awhile. A nightmare of sorts was now becoming a celebration.

Fredda and Jezebel were waiting for us when Angela and I arrived Friday morning. Friends. Warmth. A smile and sigh of relief. Dr. Haddock is a breath of fresh air, and she gave the most thorough, loving and gentle exam any of my pets has ever received. She even kissed Angela on the forehead. She took our photo, which later got posted on her practice’s FB page. I was with family, not a clinic. We were being loved. A giant man with a foreign accent came in and introduced himself. “Don’t worry, I’m not as scary as I look.” he smiled. More family. He lit up the room with his warmth and personality. He would be working on Angela that afternoon.

Angela only needed the one tooth pulled. Her teeth (what’s left of em) are pearly white once more. While under anesthesia they discovered some small growths on the back of her tongue which seem benign and we are going to watch (they offered me the option of biopsying, but I declined) She also told me that the tooth was so bad that even while Angela was under sedation her body flinched when they touched the tooth. She had been in tons of pain and kept it all to herself. This situation was dire. Animals hide their pain as a defense mechanism because the sick and the weak get picked off in the wild. Sally called me about the growths while Angela was still under, the office called in the afternoon to tell me how she was doing post-op. I had not only a relaxing afternoon, I had a good one. Angela was in good hands. And I put her there.

Sally and her office kept in touch with me the entire weekend, following Angela’s progress. Angela came through with flying colors. She looked at me like she did when I was first on the phone with Sally. With deep love in her eyes, she purred loudly and rubbed me with her face over and over and over again. She thanked me all weekend, there was no mistaking it. Two weeks later she’s over it. We still love each other, but the fireworks are over. She was giving me a clear message at the time. Yes. Do it. Yes. Go here. I got the message.

The bill came in well under the estimate, and I have six months to pay it off with no interest thanks to the Kitty Kat Kredit Kard (officially called Care Credit, and I highly recommend it, no fees) http://www.carecredit.com/. Dr. Sally Haddock runs the St. Marks Veterinary Hospital on East 9^th Street in NYC. http://stmarksvet.com/ Need I say more about her and her beautiful staff? It is a happy place. It is a good place.

My mom succumbed to pancreatic cancer a month before I graduated college. She hung on two years, eighteen months longer than the most optimistic prognosis, the fierceness of a lioness driving her through sickness until I had made it, finally, on my own two feet. I stand in her light.

"How many glasses of wine...?"

2012-01-08T17:18:00.000-08:00

"How many glasses of wine do you have to drink before you wrap your legs around me again?" he asked. It had been several weeks since we first met, a night that started with fireworks and crescendoed with...well, I'll get to that part later.

I was intoxicated when I met him. With good food and wine initially, and additionally by the fact of meeting him. He was someone I had admired from afar for years, and when I met him, quite by surprise…the thrill of this chance encounter heightened my buzz. The fact that he liked me added fuel to the warmth of the restaurant, the meal, the night.

I was dining with friends at a restaurant near their country home. The restaurant was cosy and charming. I was very happy. I was on my way to a personal growth class in the country, a place I had blossomed at over many visits. I hadn’t been there in five years and was excited to return.

I was eating mussels and salad when the waitress came over and told us the name of this gentleman, said he was sitting “right over there” I jumped, “Where?” She pointed and I spotted him. Yes, that was him. I knew what he looked like. I had seen him on TV and thought he was aging well, thought that he was very handsome. He saw me looking and smiled at me. My friends were confused, not really sure who he was. I quickly filled them in and told them I would be assaulting him shortly. I’m not an autograph hound, but when I truly admire someone, I quickly and discreetly let them know.

He was with two male friends and I didn’t want to disturb them, so I surveyed their conversation to determine when it would be appropriate for me to interrupt. As I continued to look over he continued to look back and smiled at me each time. I whispered to my friend, “he’s smiling at me.”

When the time was right I approached his table and confirmed his identity. “ I love your story.” I said , “I love what you did.” He thanked me. His friends invited me to sit. They were gracious and engaged me in conversation. After five minutes one guy said “Well, buddy, happy birthday. Good night.” His friends left. We were alone. “Happy birthday.” I said. Pause. I asked if he’d like to join my table, where we were finishing dinner. He obliged.

I was already drunk, a good 3 glasses of red down the hatch, which for me, is a titanic quantity. I was woozy on wine and being with this man. Meeting him was electrifying. He had sparkling eyes and a vibrant personality. I was buzzing.

We rubbed elbows at the table. Our knees touched below. We were like giddy teenagers. My friends watched, not sure what to think. When we finished dinner my friend’s husband told him we were going to the local pub, would he like to join us? He nodded. He trailed beside me like a puppy dog, occasionally stopping to flirt with local girls, but it didn’t bother me. I knew he was with me. He told me later that evening he’s been accused of being a womanizer. The man was like the mayor. Everybody in town knew him and greeted him. I told him he was a “peopleizer”.

At the pub he vivaciously regaled us with tales from his famous life. It was story time around the campfire. Our elbows and knees continued to touch. Since the band was loud, my friend’s husband said “We’re going home to open a bottle of wine. Would you like to join us?” He nodded. It was terribly surreal. We were all on a ride to god knows where with this guy.

My friend’s husband gave him driving directions. I turned to leave with my friends, but they had vanished. All of a sudden I’m in his sportscar. If I had been in a horse and buggy with Abraham Lincoln I couldn’t have been more surprised. A fire was blazing in the living room when we arrived at their house. The bottle was opened and we sipped a little to be polite. Drink had played all the role it could that night. I put my feet in his lap and he gave me a foot rub. A rough one. He had some reflexology training and it hurt. My friend and her husband looked on amazed at the two of us. He was 27 years my senior. Her husband said, “Well, we’re going to bed, guy. My house is your house.” And they went upstairs.

We continued to touch and talk. We tried on each others’ rings. He was handsome, but he was old. I’d never been with anyone chronologically older than 38. This man was 69. Or 70. I kept trying to do the math based on what I knew about him, and between the wine and the hope that he was only in his sixties, I concluded that he was 69. Seventy was just too fuckin’ OLD. The skin on his neck was loose. I looked at his mouth and had no desire to kiss it. We held each other but didn’t lock lips.

I told him my parents had died when I was relatively young. “Oh, a little orphan.” he said and sang a few lines of Italian opera to me. “Do you know what that means?” I shook my head. “Daddy’s little girl.” He stroked my hair. Some of my friends thought that was creepy. I didn’t. My Dad died when I was five, and I’d only been with younger, selfish, irresponsible guys. My guard went down. I was mesmerized.

We lay down, my head on his chest. It was hard. Bony. He was trim, but not buff. I did my best to work with what was there but was not turned on by it. On the other hand I liked him and I was drunk. I knew I could sleep with this guy and what a story that would make. What a crazy anecdote. But I also knew that I didn’t know what I would be getting into. No one is just an anecdote. There’s a person there. This guy was a wild card, an unidentified can of worms. I was playing with fire.

My eyes closed, my body on his body, I surrendered to the woozy feelings of wine and attraction, while the caveats swirled around my head. I refused to deal with his face and neck, so I focused on the body. I ran my hand up his chest, sought out the flesh beneath his shirt and recoiled. The skin was soft and loose. I stroked his chest briefly then withdrew to the safety above fabric. His hand reached down to touch the top of my ass, under my jeans. He touched my breast, above my shirt. My eyes remained closed. This was a dream. But the reality was that my legs were on top of his thighs, and I couldn’t feel any hardness between them. I had been with a younger lover not too long before who had difficulties in this area, and the thought of dealing with that scenario again, not to mention with an older, non-functioning model, was not something I could cope with. I was missing the heat and hardness of a man who is aroused. He wasn’t ready. We were going through the motions. I ran up the white flag and fell asleep on his chest.

In the morning my friend’s husband was nonchalant. “How did you sleep?” “Well.” “What happened with him?” “We slept together.” “What! NO! You didn’t!” Even though this guy had totally pimped me out the night before he was shocked that I would actually go through with it. “I didn’t have sex with him.” I said. “We fell asleep. I kicked him out at 3:30 when I woke up.” He breathed a sigh of relief.

But my gentleman caller called that morning and joined us outdoors for a picnic and kayaking. He did all the talking and ranted ad infinitum, reading from a play he’d written. By the end of the afternoon I was thoroughly fed up with this fellow, decided he was a wack job, and let my friends know that I was done. We bid him adieu and he kissed my hand chivalrously, even though I’d been very dismissive of him that day.

So an anecdote he became. He was the old guy I snuggled with. Weeks went by and we spoke on the phone. He asked me when I was coming his way again and I told him I didn’t know, but that I would tell him when I did. When I visited my friends’ country home again I didn’t call him. We went out to lunch Saturday. There he was, at the restaurant. My first instinct was to duck and hide, but I swiftly decided to stand right in front of him. He looked amazed, then took me in his arms. He joined us for lunch. He was jocular, “on”, in his peopleizer mode, mayor of the town. I invited him to my friend Mark’s restaurant opening that night. Conan O' Brien was there. Mark and I went to school with him.

At the celebration we were flirty and relaxed. There was no denying we liked each other. He worked the room but always circled back to me. He cornered me at the bar, me with a bellini, he with a glass of red. “So. How many glasses of wine do you need before you wrap your legs around me again?” I looked away and laughed the question off. I continued the conversation by asking him questions, and remarked that he knew nothing about me. He said “I figured if there was something you wanted me to know, you would tell me” I said, “You could ask me questions.” He never did.

I flirted with everyone that night, with Mark’s utterly adorable dad, a grandfather who reminded me of Vincent Gardenia. I flirted with Mark’s brother, also married with kids. I was having such a grand time I chose to skip my ride back with my friends. I had ride offers from Mark and his brother. By the time I was ready to leave my gentleman caller put in a third bid. I decided to go with him.

He drove me around main street, trying to impress me, it seemed, with how fabulous this little town was. He explained every restaurant and bar to me. Took me down to the river. I decided to divulge something very personal about myself, something meaningful to me. He interrupted me mid-sentence. It was obvious he didn’t want to know anything about me. It was all about him. This turned me off considerably, as did the bleak, weighty Italian peasant music he put on. I couldn’t wait to get out of the car, out of this situation. Given what happened the last time he was here I warned him “If my friends are up when we arrive, you can come over for a little bit. But if they’re not, I’m going to bed.” The lights were off when we arrived. He would not be coming in. He walked me to the door and kissed me on the lips, but no tongue, thank god. He said, “Ciao, bambina.” I kissed him on the neck I had been avoiding. The dreaded neck and lips had been broached, but I wasn’t wanting more. I retreated to the safety of my bedroom, alone in my friends’ house. ©2012

The Cheese Thief (a scary story)

2012-01-04T19:46:00.000-08:00

This is my own personal “Blair Witch Project”, or “Blitch Witch” as one of my outrageous gym teachers mispronounced it. He couldn’t pronounce synopsis either. He tried a few times and settled on “synospis”. That’s the last joke of this piece. Fasten your seatbelts.

I was wary of him from the get go. He was an interloper at a dinner where not only was he not invited, but the friend who invited him was not invited, either. I was suspicious of the two. They were hangers on. From Paris, no less. And I’m all for Paris. I’m just not for hangers on.

I was to dine alone with someone whose company I valued greatly, a compadre in the personal growth world, we’d spent a few weeks together in the woods at a wonderful class. I trusted him. I liked him. But he, alack, had fallen in love, sigh…with a beautiful French girl, and he was beholden to her world. So we were now saddled with two of her friends because he was courting them as surely as he was courting her.

The young man was an artist. Rail thin. Tres, tres polite. Polished. Charmant. He reached out to me with his card, and I’d given him mine as well. He came to a group I ran in my home, a meditation/prayer/psychic development group. He was an astrologer. A drinker. And gay. He knew how to open a bottle of wine, and how to pour it. When someone brought Moet to the group (we shared snacks and wine after the meeting) an uncouth character wanted to mix orange juice with it. Francois would not allow it. “Non! If you are going to mix the Moet you cannot have it. It’s too good.” Right on.

He was fairly psychic, and very open to the energies of the group, which was mostly female. Won’t be the first time girls and gays got along together. I saw a lot of psychic images for him involving the color red and velocity, like a fast sports car. I saw a tall red flower and the Eiffel Tower. He seemed to understand the meaning, though I couldn’t fathom it. Psychic images are most often symbolic, like messages from the dream world. It takes time and patience to unravel the language of the subconscious. It’s a worthwhile task.

He offered to give me a free astrological/numerological reading. I was touched, and accepted, but somewhat creeped out when he gave it to me. I don’t remember specifics, only that I felt unsettled. Discomfited. A good reading is not meant to butter you up and play to your weaknesses, but it is certainly not intended to bring you down. What value is there in that?

I socialized with him from time to time, mostly art events he invited me to. His friends were the loveliest females. Artists, painters, gallery owners, psychics, mediums, costume designers. Every gal he brought to my group was a gem. Warm, sweet, loving, somewhat vulnerable. I loved each and every one.

He took photos of my dog when I needed them, and he and I and one other guy and gal had an amazing day out at Coney Island, inspired by a vision I’d had for the gal, a close friend of Francois’. It was an easy, breezy day with the Frenchman and his friend, a chef at a European Embassy, and a pleasure to be with such polite and charming guys. The other gal was Francois’ good friend, shy, sweet, also European, very sensitive, with limited English. I was quite fond of her.

Through the various metaphysical classes and workshops I’ve taken over the years I’ve made lots of friends, including Sonia. I met her while studying mediumship with James Van Praagh. Brazilian, she was the life of the party, wild, crazy, mediumistic, and a healer via massage therapy.

Sonia was up from Miami working in New York for a few days. She called me when her free housing in the city had ended. I put her up. We got on well. She gave me a wonderful massage.

She participated in my development circle and while Francois was not there, his costume designer friend, Cynthia (also French) was. Sonia focused on her. She said Francois’ name (she’d never met him) then said she felt dark energy, sickness. A hermaphrodite. Black and white tiles. Danger. A masked man with a cape, like Zorro. Cynthia said “this message is not for me”. I thought it was, including the fact that her friend’s name had been specified.

After everyone left Sonia confided in me. “Valerie. I was terrified. Petrified of what I saw. There was death, Valerie, Death. It was awful. Something very, very dark and dangerous.” She couldn’t explain more, but I could see how shaken she was. Eventually I decided to share this message with Francois. I became convinced that I knew what it meant. The darkness, the danger, the death, came from his gypsy friend Maria. She was a “hermaphrodite” (yes, I’m pushing the meaning of bisexual) having put her hand on my thigh under the table during a dinner out. She also has a rich boyfriend, and became pregnant by him.

Maria’s girlfriend is involved with my male friend (who is rich). The potential for use and abuse was there. Francois was not rich. But he worshipped Maria, the gypsy, whom I’d met. He believed in her powers, her vision, her ability. I was very careful how I couched all this with him. She’s his best friend. I was accusing her essentially, of being involved with the black arts, which would explain the death and darkness that Sonia felt. What was it really? I don’t know. But Sonia looked like she’d just sat through “Silence of the Lambs”.

I made it very clear that I thought his friend could be dangerous. He was disturbed by the warning, but eventually decided that he could interpret the black and white imagery, because Maria’s sister, also a witchy type, had given him black and white substances to create magic with. Mind you, I’m not putting down Wicca and Pagan beliefs and practices which are of the light. Glenda the Good was a good witch! But this magic was of a questionable nature. He was to use it in his place of work, run by the nicest gallery owner, whom I’d met. A real earth mother type. What was it to accomplish? He was vague. I said “get rid of it”. He asked me how he should throw it out. I said “It doesn’t matter how! Just get it out of your house, whatever it is.” He told me he threw it out the next day.

Now, for sure, Francois had some interesting habits. During my meetings, which lasted 2-4 hours, he would disappear twice for 10-20 minutes at a pop, off into the bathroom. Now, a girl does this, one doesn’t generally blink. But a boy? Repeatedly? One starts to question gastro intestinal issues. When this happens week after week, one just starts to wonder. Yes, I keep lovely reading material in the bathroom, The Sedona Journal of Emergence. That was one plausible explanation. He mentioned looking at it once. But it didn’t explain 2 visits to the loo for 10-20 minutes each week. This was inexplicable, not to mention rude behavior from an allegedly healthy male.

Being a rather blunt person, I finally blurted out one day after yet another lengthy excursion to the toilet, “what the heck are you doing in there?” “Oh, I was putting lotion on my skin, it was very dry from the beach.” He’d said he was at the beach that day. Okay. So what about every other day? He didn’t go to the beach every week. It was a capricious lie.

Since I knew he was preoccupied with sex (he felt that explained all my “red, hot” Tour Eiffel/phallic images) I started guessing that he was jerking off in there. Nice. Not what I invite people into my home for, especially not for a spiritual development group. No sir. He talked about his pick-ups in the group, and since we prayed and meditated for ourselves and others, he asked us to pray for this violent guy he’d picked up who was now stalking him. I said “No, we’re not going to pray for him. We’re going to pray for YOU. Cause you attracted him. It’s your problem, not his.”

He asked us to pray for his frail grandmother in France who was being robbed blind by her aide. We did.

Francois remained just pleasant, charming and useful enough to remain on my good side. Until one night. His French friend Cynthia came to the group and brought comte, a fine French cheese. I was enthralled, however being quite full I was looking forward to enjoying my share of the comte the next day. There was a piece about one inch by three inches left on the table, perfect to accompany my lunch the following day. We retired to the living room and that was that.

When Francois readied to leave he went to clean the table, something he’d never done before. I protested. “Please, no, don’t do that,” “I insist” he said. “Thank you, but I prefer that you not do it, please just leave everything where it is.” Going against my request he brought plates into my tiny, crowded kitchen.

When he left the cheese was gone. This may seem a tiny thing, but to me it was quite big. It was my home, my table, my request that he do nothing, my cheese, my lunch. It was not in the trash. It was not on a plate. Not in the fridge. He had taken the cheese.

Now, if he had simply said “I’m taking the cheese!” it wouldn’t have been so bad. I could have yelled “wait! I want it! I didn’t have any tonight!” The fact that he pretended to be helpful in order to get what he wanted was disturbingly manipulative.

I wrote him the next day and said “I would have appreciated it if you’d just asked for the cheese and not pretended to clean up in order to get it.”

He wrote “Darling! I don’t know what you’re talking about. Your cats ate it!” My cats don’t eat cheese. Never have. Not a one. I had one who ate peanut butter and chocolate (this was before I knew chocolate was dangerous, but it never hurt him, and only endeared him to me), one who drinks organic half and half with relish, but never a one, in 27 years, who ate cheese. Not even a fleck of parmesan.

Now I was really mad. He was accusing my cats of theft! The ruse was just so, so absurd. A piece of cheese? Seriously? The fact that he had to create such drama and lies around an innocuous event was very strange. A mist of distrust swirled up.

Nonetheless, he asked to use my computer before another meeting and I was more than happy to accommodate him. My guard went down again. “If you ever want to sleep over” I said. Why did I say that? He was poor, lived in queens, worked in Manhattan, and I had an extra bed. I felt the desire to help him. Apparently other women wanted to mother and mentor him as well.

The friendship continued and the plot thickened. I went to a development circle with him in Connecticut, a group I’d attended regularly for a year. We did a “speed dating” type psychic exercise, where you line up in rows and read the person directly in front of you before moving down the line. Everyone read 6-8 people and got read by 6-8 people. It’s intense, loud and fast. You have to focus.

A woman I did not know sensed my father’s spirit. He held a baby in his arms. “Were you the baby of the family?” “Yes.” “Either that, or he’s just calling you his baby”. Either one worked for me. “Your father doesn’t like the man who was just in your house.” I was confused, as I often was by psychic messages. Some of them you have to think about, they must marinate. Some of them don’t make sense 'til months or years later. Some of them never make sense. At any rate, you say “thank you” and leave it at that.

I took the train home with Francois. I told him the message. I said “It makes no sense, because the only man who was in my home last night was you. But you’re my friend.” I had held a circle the previous night. Francois said coyly “I hope he doesn’t mean me!” I hugged Francois. “Of course not! How could he?” But what did my father mean?

Something else the woman said stuck in my head. “Are you missing something? Something under the sink, in the kitchen?” Now I started to wonder what could be missing and who could have taken it. I trusted the staff in my building, really trusted them. Good guys, good men. They had the keys to my apartment. They’d also worked under my kitchen sink recently. What the hell would they have taken, a can of Pledge? Because my suspicions had been raised I was now running through my mind…in whom have I mistakenly placed trust? It’s a creepy thought when you contemplate not really knowing the people you think you know. I found nothing missing.

I took a shower then looked for my moisturizer. My body lotion, under the bathroom sink, was gone. Not just any body lotion, but special cream I’d just bought from Bliss, Lemon and Sage shea butter stuff. Pricey, something I splurged on. I felt sick. So it wasn’t missing from the kitchen. She’d picked up “under the sink”. Close enough. Body lotion indeed. He’d already admitted to using it when his skin was dry “from the beach”.

Now a brand new tube was gone. Stealing from a friend is pretty crappy. First the cheese, now this? My head was spinning with the implications. If he does these petty things and lies about them so easily, what else is he doing? I asked a psychic friend of mine to focus on him. I’ve referred to her before. She’s razor sharp, whip smart, with laser beam accuracy. It was a few weeks before I saw her and she focused on him.

“Who’s David?”

“I have no idea”

“Why am I seeing Lincoln Center?”

“No clue.”

“Does he have ties to Spain?"

“Yes”

“I’m seeing the Camino de Santiago Campostela”

“His Spanish friend just walked it.”

Damn, she was good. She didn’t know these people.

“Is he a transvestite?”

This made me gulp, hard. He got a psychic reading from someone in my group who saw a false eyelash fall into soup. He laughed and said it had happened to him when he was on a date with someone, someone he didn’t know was a transvestite. How is that possible if your date is wearing false eyelashes? The pieces fell together. The lady doth protest too much. He was the transvestite. His mannerisms, delicacy and rail thinness would only contribute to his skills in that department.

And then my friend froze. She stiffened. “Oh god, why do they show me this stuff?”

“What?” I said both wanting and not wanting to know.

“Do you feel safe with him?”

My blood curdled.

“I did until now….What?”

“I’m picking up violence. It’s ugly. I think he has the ability to rape. You.

Drugs. He would drug you first.”

Okay. Stop right there. The guy’s GAY. He’s gay! He’s a 90 pound weakling and looks like a marionette! Why would he want to have sex with me, let alone rape me? It was crazy.

So then more memories kicked in, chilling my blood further. He had admitted in my group (casually, I might add) that he’d been accused of raping a girl when he was 13. Rather young, but more surprisingly why would he be with a girl? “Oh, I’ve slept with girls.” he said. “Why?” I asked. “I had sex with that 12 year old girl, but it was consensual. We were friends” There was a rather ugly fight between their two families. But the fact that he’d even had sex with a girl, let alone a 12 year old girl, was shocking to me. Rape? Sex addict. Liar. Thief. Still, he remained charming, and in my life.

He drank up a storm. He was a bottomless well, and never showed its effects. He confessed he’d raised the eyebrows of his costume designer friend, Cynthia. She and her husband had him to their new year’s eve party. She questioned his sobriety, what was wrong with him? He said “oh, someone must have slipped something in my drink” So you use drugs, too. Fine. Don’t lie about it. The eyelashes, the drugs, they were always "somebody else’s".

So now my psychic friend tells me he has the capacity (and the desire?) to drug and rape me? Mind boggling. None of this is provable, but the evidence was mounting, the underage rape accusation, the abuse of sex, alcohol, and drugs. The cheese.

Not long after this my psychic friend had a nightmare about him. She saw a meditation group and all the girls were wearing yellow (this is a symbol of intuitive ability) Sounded like my group. He was there. And when she saw him she heard the words “serial killer”.

Now that I was deeply concerned I ran him by another “sensitive” friend who had met him at my group. She confessed that she thought he was terrible, dangerous and horrible. “Why didn’t you tell me?!” I was upset. “Because he was your friend.” “Um, hello! All the more reason to tell me! I trust you! Please, please tell me if you pick up stuff like this. This is my home, and my life! I don’t want those energies, or those people in my home!”

It seemed when he was doing his friendly astrology/numerology schtick in the group, he’d asked this girl not only what her birthdate was, but the exact spelling of her name, for “numerological purposes”. I was there and heard the question, watched him as he wrote it all down. Nothing unusual about that. But when she went to get her purse that evening, she felt his energy all over it. She psychically saw him rifling through her bag, and her wallet. A chill went through her. The two of them ended up leaving at the same time and waited for the elevator together. She looked right through him. He shot her a murderous look back. She was so disturbed she got on the phone that night and cancelled all her credit cards. She felt he was involved in an identity theft ring. I knew he was desperately trying to obtain his own work visa/green card.

Now the original warning from Sonia made sense. The hermaphrodite. Sure, it could apply to his crazy gypsy friend, but he was “both man and woman” too. The caped, masked figure. Who is he? Don’t know. Don’t want to know. “Death, Valerie, I saw Death. I smelled it. I felt it. It was terrible.” This from psychic number one, and months later, from another “rape, drugs, serial killer”. Both people who don’t know him.

I went from thinking he was jerking off in my bathroom to trying to crack my computer and banking codes. He had a smart phone. He was smart. I will never know for sure what he was doing. I just know he wasn’t putting “lotion on his skin” And was it the aide in France robbing his frail old grandmother blind, or was it him or one of his friends? Criminals have the oddest way of confessing their sins….

What do I conclude? That it’s no accident that his female friends are warm, loving and vulnerable (except his gypsy pal). I believe he uses their energy somehow, like a psychic vampire. Every one of them had funds (except his gypsy pal) He is obsessed with lower energies: sex, drugs and alcohol.

I knew a gal who went to a Santeria ritual (or two). This was a savvy, sassy New York businesswoman from California. She did not suffer fools gladly. But in this Santeria ritual she was told to lie on the floor and spread her legs. “You did it?” I said. She nodded. “Why’d you do it?” She shrugged, but admitted she didn’t feel comfortable there and never went back. I’m not well versed in the dark arts but I know enough to know that people can be used, energy can be used, and there’s such a thing as energy vampires. Darkness can feed off of light. And for a woman to spread her legs at a ritual run by men…were they sucking out energy or putting it in? I have no idea. But you wouldn’t catch me there…No religion that hurts animals and takes life is of the light. God doesn’t need sacrifice. God has everything, is everything, creates everything. How could killing His/Her children be a gift?

Francois told me a few months later. “I want you to know I finally threw that black and white stuff out.” “I know you did, you told me that months ago.” “No, I didn’t. I just said that to make you feel better. I threw it out last night.” He kept admitting his lies. And he kept lying.

When I decided to eject him from my bathroom (and my life) I emailed one of his dear friends who came to my group “I want you to know that I’m not speaking to Francois right now, but you are more than welcome to come to the meeting.” She contacted him immediately and he confronted me immediately. I did not pick up the phone. He called repeatedly and left several messages. He was angry.

I wrote him an email. “I know this may seem confusing to you, as it does to me, but I must consider the meaning of my father’s message. Thank you for your understanding.” No need to tick off an identity/cheese theft hermaphrodite serial killer. If he was a real friend wouldn’t he be hurt or confused by my rejection? Why angry? There was no pleading or trying to understand, no apology in any way, even if he didn’t know what to apologize for. He was buzzing with anger.

I know all of this sounds crazy, and it is, but I share it as an example of how important it is to take stock of your feelings, inconsistencies in peoples’ behavior, and the integrity of the people around you. Has this person committed violent crimes? I have no way of knowing.

Here’s what I think…because he is an addict and therefore keeps his spiritual vibration low (drugs, sex alcohol, lies, stealing) he is vulnerable to being used by dark energies. Perhaps that is the masked, caped figure, a dark violent force that is feeding off of him, like a psychic vampire. Creepy. And what’s creepier yet is how much I enjoyed his company, and for so long (around two years, I’d say).

A year or more later he reached out to me via Facebook, saying that “I take your recent FB connection with one of my friends as a positive sign for us. I’m not angry. I just miss you and want to be friends again. As you know, I am very blunt, like you, and honest…” I could hear the H as he pronounced “honest” (like honey), with his French accent. Ask a liar if he’s telling you the truth, he’ll say yes, even as the cheese lies in his belly. “Come closer, little girl”, said the big bad wolf in grandma’s bed. ©2012

Peter, Paul and me-ary (I mean, me)

2012-01-02T14:18:00.000-08:00

I know several channelers, including two Peters and a Paul (only ten more apostles to go!) One Peter is very abstemious, slight of build, and when I went to his home for a private reading ten years ago, extraordinarily “zen” (read spare, or he couldn’t afford any furniture). He looked like he did yoga all day (or couldn’t afford food). He wrote a simple guidebook about physical and spiritual health, including the evils of white flour and sugar (I agree, they are the real “White Devil” now that the KKK is out of the running). These empty calories are addictive drugs and suppress our feelings when we stuff them down. I used to attend Peter’s group channelings when their location was convenient.

Paul is a very human fellow. He diets and complains about being single. He has a dog. He teaches college. He’s also an extraordinary channel. I attend his group channelings from time to time.

The other Peter is a horse of a different color. Young, vibrant, in great shape, goes to the gym regularly, and works like a dog. He’s always running around. I met him at a séance. It was a pretty crappy séance, truth be told, or “message circle” as they’re sometimes called. I’d been to circles where the messages were of a higher nature than “your dead uncle likes your jacket”. The energy is only as good as the folk in the room. This one felt like a waste of time, giving meaning to the term “for entertainment purposes only”. Except it was boring. However Peter had been giving messages that impressed me. They seemed insightful and heartfelt.

The evening was coming to a close. I raised my hand when the “Reverend” (they’re a dime a dozen in these spiritualist groups) running the group asked who hadn’t received a message yet. It was very dark in the room, but we could see/sense where the voices were coming from. Peter, seated somewhere to my right, perked up to speak when he saw my hand.

But another medium piped up first. “Yes, Reverend Carmelita?” said “Reverend Whatever Whatever” running the show. Rev C. was pushing 60 but she looked like Charro in her 20’s. She was ready for clubbing with a dress cut low (both front and back), long orangey blonde hair (or a wig) heels (of course) and a lotta makeup. That’s fine if it’s Saturday night in the Bronx. If you’re gonna take the moniker “Reverend” at a spirit circle couldn’t you try to dress a little reverentially?

She spoke like Charro, too, as she gave me my message. “Ju grandfathah is heah an’ he say dat ju are emotional disturb.” Thanks, Charro! Not exactly what Papu would have said, but in fact, I could work with the full message that she gave me without holding it against her.

You have to be savvy about psychic messages. No one picks up or presents the full enchilada. Anyone worth their psychic salt can get a piece of the puzzle, sometimes several pieces. I do not discount a reading just because some of it is off (if all of it is off that’s another story). You don’t dismiss a meteorologist if something in her report is not exact because there are many constantly shifting variables that go into weather patterns.

There are many psychic variables too. The reader brings her own filters, thoughts and coloring to the message she's giving. Two mediums can present very different versions of the same message. It’s like the game of telephone. What is initiated may have nothing to do with the message that ultimately gets relayed. A good medium is an interpreter. And translations are subject to…interpretation. Take what works for you, discard what doesn’t. And don’t go to readers with a storefront filled with neon lights, crystals and shit. They’re scam artists.

While I am not “emotionally disturbed” I am very emotional. She mentioned negativity and judgmentalness. I can take that, I’ve been working on it. So, to me the message was “take a chill pill and be more loving and compassionate.” However, I wanted to know what the young man was going to say.

When the lights were up I approached him. “Excuse me. Did you have a message for me?” “Yes.” he said. I had to wait since it seemed he had messages for lots of people, or lots of socializing to do. Regardless, when I got my message, it was worth the wait. It was insightful, relevant, reassuring, and he was a total stranger to me. James Van Praagh calls this “survival evidence mediumship”, information provided that is so specific only the person in spirit and the person receiving the message could know it. Peter gave me his business card. He was a VP from Chase Bank.

I saw him again in similar situations, including a psychic development group where he channeled for free. He went into deep trance during which his conscious mind is down for the count. When he comes to he remembers nothing. Several powerful energies spoke through him, each with a discernable change of pacing, energy, voice, and topic. They gave specific messages to people and inspiring lectures, including a warning that a natural disaster would hit New York within 30 days (this was a few weeks before Hurricane Irene). Score.

A Latino kid from the Bronx, he’d become a VP at Chase by his late 20s. It was an interesting mix. His English wasn’t great (on the order of “I axed him a question”) but he seemed sincere, bright eyed and bushy-tailed. While I found him attractive, he wasn’t quite my type and was too young . So I introduced him to a very sweet young gal, also a medium. He took to her. She was skeptical, without giving specifics. “Something’s off” she said. I decided she was too sensitive. She picked up negativity a lot of the time. Some of it was dead on, since it was in my life and I could validate it. I couldn’t validate the stuff going on in his life.

To me, his channeling was magical, mystical and wonderful. Frankly, it had nothing to do with him except he was the body the energies were using. He didn’t drink, he seemed squeaky clean and I felt like a lush next to him. He was always on the run. He did readings, he had a corporate job, and he was getting his own “Reverend” degree from the psychic organization that ran the séances. If you can’t guess already, I’m not impressed with the Reverend title. I know too many of ‘em who are neither reverent nor inspirational, though they may be fabulous mediums and psychics. Why can’t they just leave it at that?

I’m also perturbed by spiritualist mediums obsessed with their appearance from fake tans, too much hair gel, tight dresses, plastic surgery, and trendy clothes. There’s nothing wrong with looking decent, but if you are devoted to spirit shouldn’t you be more focused on sanctity and less concerned with “bringing sexy back”? I’m not suggesting nuns' habits, but do you have to look like you’re hooking while brandishing your “reverend” certificate?

Too much ego, not enough humility.

So this young man, it seemed, wanted to be a motivational speaker. I was disappointed. I loved his channeling, and wanted him to do more of that, I felt that was his strong suit, not giving speeches with his “dese dems and dose” English. He offered a free two day seminar on “abundance” and I went to support him. While his energy was vibrant and bright he was preaching to the choir and said nothing new, or frankly, interesting. It seemed he fancied himself the next Tony Robbins. I told him that if he wanted to be a public speaker he should get a dialect coach and clean up his speech. I “axed” him if he would offer channeling workshops or groups so that I could benefit from what I considered to be his ace in the pocket and greatest gift. He said he’d let me know.

Part of his trepidation to channel more, he claimed, was that he didn’t know how he was being used while he was “out”. I had two semi-private readings with him which were remarkable, and I sent him the audio so that he could hear what had happened. There was nothing untoward. In fact, it was all very beautiful, high level stuff.

On a personal level, he had a vexing habit of not returning emails, even when I was trying to book an appointment with him. Unprofessional. Inexplicable. You work at a bank, you are running your own enterprise, and your new email address has the word “truth” in it? Have some integrity. When he finally offered a channeling group on portal day 11/11/11, I was interested in going but had other plans. I told him to pencil in a spot for me in the event I could rearrange my schedule. When I tried to secure a spot he wasn’t sure he had one. I told him to please get back to me either way. He didn’t. I went ahead with my original plan for the evening.

When he channeled, Archangels came through. You can snort and roll your eyes if you want, but I was convinced. Beautiful, varied energies with beautiful messages, and each had a different voice, quality and pace. I was in a semi-private channeled reading when another person asked what Jesus’ most important message was. I snorted and rolled my eyes. I thought “What a dumb ass question. Everything Jesus said was pithy and powerful”. His motif was LOVE LOVE LOVE, yourself and others and he said it a million different ways. What was Jesus’ bestselling sound bite, “the phrase that pays”, “Top of the Pops”, his biggest hit? Please….

When the energies within his body were shifting (it was a macabre process to be sure) I didn’t know what was going on. Was he choking? Was he dying? Could he breathe? It was different with each energy coming through. This time his body went stiff as a board then straightened out, like he was stretched on a diving board. His head tilted back in the chair, he arched back, and this deep voice came out of him: “I AM THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD”.

Ta da. That was it? Out of all Jesus’ hit singles, I’m not sure that’s the one I would have picked. But since I was slowly absorbing what was going on and since he had embodied Archangels Michael and Ariel before, as well as St. Francis of Assisi, it slowly dawned on me “was that the big JC? Are you kidding me? Did he come in just for that?” I sat there stunned. Peter came out and adjusted slowly to consciousness. Vacating your body is not the easiest thing, although he claims it always gave him energy instead of depleting him.

Peter sat there quietly with his head in his hands. I saw him wipe his eyes, then heard him sniffle. Not wanting to interfere, I waited then gently said “are you alright?” he paused. “yeah”. It was obvious now he was crying. I offered him a tissue. He used it. “I just feel so much love. I’ve never felt so much love.” And he sat there, tears streaming down his face. I touched his shoulder. “Do you know what happened?” I asked. “Do you know who was here?” He shook his head. “I think it was the big JC. You were asked what his most important teaching was and it seems as if maybe the big guy answered it himself. ‘YOU ARE THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD’ he said." I guess it’s not a bad sentiment if you had to pick one. It was growing on me.

Peter started sobbing as the enormity of it hit him. He said “thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, you guys”. He was thanking us for the session. What did we do? We attracted the energies that came in. His sessions were not all like that.

Time went by and I sent the guy two emails. A simple response would be nice. Nothing, as usual.

Then, the floodgates opened. I got 26 emails from him.

I was confused. Then shocked. Then disturbed. The first seemed to be a response from him to a person on an online dating site. Nothing about this email was to me, except I seemed to be bcc’d on it. I let him know immediately via email “Somehow I got bcc’d on this, thought you should know” Next I got an email to a list of names, girls names, and a long one. They were described by type, age, race, there were almost 100. It said “if your name is not on this list it’s because you joined after (a certain date)”. My name was not on the list. I wrote him immediately. “I do not want to be on this list!” Then a flood of emails was unleashed. Filthy, dirty, pornographic, disgusting. And a nude photo of him, featuring his privates, standing at attention. Oh, lord. Emails describing it, what he did with it, what he thought the girls wanted him to do with it. Seemed he emailed a different girl every minute. I was appalled.

I’m not a prude, in fact, I believe sex is sacred. Not like you have to be married to have it (who says married sex is sacred? it is only if your marriage is) But love and sex combined can create powerful energy. Healing energy. Uplifting energy. Enlightening energy. This does not apply to anonymous, nameless, faceless stuff. Not what he was selling and buying (metaphorically, I hope, although who the hell knows) I looked at every email and my morale sank deeper and deeper. I felt dirty. I went to bed disturbed and I woke up disturbed.

Now I know many of you are going to think this guy is an out and out shyster and I’m an out and out idiot for believing him. I never believed in him. I believed the messages that came through him. There is a big difference. Have you ever heard of a professional genius who was also a private asshole? Of course you have! The world is full of them. We are all complex, multi-faceted beings and the point is not to judge, but to discern. I don’t have to judge him for what he’s doing personally but nor will I associate with him again. And now I know why the spirits have to knock the kid out cold before they can talk through him!

This Reverend who also calls himself a Dr. (which is ridiculous, since he’s neither MD nor PhD) is a bonafide vehicle of spirit. He’s also an amoral pervert and sex addict from what I can tell. He sent out two emails the next day (no apology of course) “My account was hacked! Don’t open any emails from me!” Whoops! Too late! I’d already seen Peter’s peter and it’s not an image I’ll soon forget. What a stark (naked) contrast to the squeaky clean mama’s boy he presents himself to be. You can be a nice guy and have sex. But not with hundreds of people. Not in my book. Sorry. What I saw was depraved. There I go judging again! Well, that’s my prerogative.

He also admitted in one of the emails to lying about where he worked, that it was some bank in Flushing, not Chase on Wall street. So what about that business card he gave me? I guess he had it printed somewhere.

Someone told me my lesson was that I needed to become more sensitive like my psychic friend who picked up something “being off” about him. I’m not real big on people telling me what my lessons are. I rely on myself for that. I stand by my assessment that he is not a fraud. He is a mass of contradictions and a liar. He’s no reverend (I don’t care if he has a stupid certificate) and certainly no doctor. I do not rue my association with him. In fact, I’m grateful for it. He is a fascinating conundrum.

Like Salieri in “Amadeus” I wonder “why did God pick this pervert to speak through?” I can’t answer that.

One of my lessons is to understand that we are ALL human. And that I am divine. No, not just me, you too! In the past I had a tendency to put others on pedestals, only to see them topple. What a great gift. It’s not that others don’t have value, gifts, brilliance, it’s that they don’t have more than me. No one has what I have. No one knows what I know. No one is more important than I am. That goes for you, too. Honor, respect and cherish yourself. Build yourself up instead of tearing yourself down. I’m not talking about ego. I’m talking about good, clean, humble, brilliant self-esteem.

So who do you think hacked Peter’s account?

It could be one of the many women, though from what I could see from some of their responses back their interests were as lurid as his. So why would they care? It could have been Spirit. He was not living in integrity, and he was using his pulpit as “reverend/dr.” to accrue clients as well as conquests (or were they customers? yuck). That’s the answer I like. He was “Punk’d” by God.

I’m not here to judge him. I’m not here to throw stones. I’m fascinated by the intense swirling of sacred and profane within one human. God speaks through all of us. Just because the messenger is not in integrity doesn’t mean that when he’s “working” that he’s not connected to high energies. Didn’t Jesus wash Mary Magdalene’s feet? The Lord works in mysterious ways.

Here’s a little math for you:

Sex + Love = Heaven.

Heart + Hand = Heal the world.

Think with your heart.
Feel with your head.
WEAREALLONE

Sathya Sigh....Baba Au Rhum

2011-12-31T16:38:00.000-08:00

I never met him. I never would have. I don’t like crowds or hording masses of worshipping people. I first heard of him when I saw his photo in Nancy Burson’s book “Lineage”. He was presented as her guru’s guru. I found both mens' smiling photos to be intoxicating. They seemed to be oozing love. Or something.

As I delved into the world of Burson’s guru, an Irish bloke, I got exposed to if not the world, then at least the visage, of the guru’s guru, Sathya Sai Baba, of India. His photo was often venerated, as was Irish bloke’s, even when Irish bloke himself was present, a bit of overkill to be sure. I thought we got this whole idolatry thing straightened out a long time ago. “No false idols”. But, no, even the church is full of them. People worship icons. People worship designer labels, for god’s sake.

One of Sai Baba’s little tricks (I know, I know, his followers called them “miracles”) was manifesting dirt out of thin air. Now if you are a magical manifestor, can’t you do better than dirt? I’ve written about apports before - magical manifestations such as rose petals, gems and seed pearls. These are precious apports, and I’d be pleased to have them land on my lap. But dirt?

Baba’s dirt was something called vibhuti, a whitish/grayish ash, something you’d clean out of your fireplace, or better yet, what I dump out of my HEPA vacuum canister when I clean it. This is a miracle? Only if you vacuum my house first, Guru! It’s considered “holy ash” and is derived from burned incense (or the Dyson Animal).

So I watch this Netflix DVD last night “Rod Serling Presents: Sathya Sai Baba, Man of Miracles”. The DVD was produced in 2005, but the footage was from the late sixties or early seventies by the looks of it, and from the fact that Serling was narrating. Here are the miracles I witnessed: 1) Tiny lacquered photos of the Guru (these would be icons) about the size of a dime sat in the palm of someone’s hand. Within seconds they “wept” holy nectar. (I wasn’t sure whether to put "wept" or "holy nectar" in quotes...you decide.) Now, having performed on stage and in film I’ve seen a special effect or two. It looked like glycerin to me (what doubles for tears in film) So something on the back of the icon melted in the heat of the palm and released within seconds. Some miracle, huh? Besides, what’s the significance of a trinket crying? What’s it got to be sad about?

People followed a man in an orange bathrobe with an ENORMOUS afro because he did parlor tricks? He didn’t heal people. He attracted huge crowds, throngs of people, both poor and supremely rich, and amassed fortunes as a result. I suppose this is a miracle of sorts.

For his next “act”, Baba produced vibhuti on stage (wasn’t a stage the first giveaway that this was a performance, not a miracle?) His assistant (an old Indian guy, not a cute girlie) held a two gallon terracotta pot upside down while Baba stuck his hand up, swirled it around, and LO, out poured a cloud of ash! He smiled and moved his hand some more, and behold, talcum powder! Dust! Dirt! It’s a miracle! The pot was packed with fine ash capable of being loosened by a circulating human hand. The vibhuti was dumped on some poor statue, heaps and heaps of the powder poured out. All I could think was, “Now, who’s gonna clean that up?” The man made messes, not miracles.

He also manifested necklaces sporting his lacquered visage out of “thin air” , something that was “not easy to do” commented Serling. Haven’t magicians been pulling trinkets out of sleeves for decades? This is not new technology. His devotees were not limited to Indians, he had his white (and Irish) followers too, including Isaac Tigrett, founder of the Hard Rock Café, who gave him $108 million. When Baba died April 24, 2011 at the age of 84, he left a fortune of $8.9 billion dollars, having received $19.5 million in foreign donations in 2009 alone.

What can I say? The man had fans. And I believe this Faqir was a Fake.

Here’s what struck me as hideous, terrible, and obvious: despite his setting up “charitable institutions” (you certainly have to make an effort to look legit, don’t you?) these mass events were all about HIM and his fro. Ego ego ego! It was hero worship, pure and simple, except what kind of a hero throws dirt on people and distributes cheap jewelry with his likeness on it like a car salesman handing out pens?

I assisted a casting agent a couple of times and one of the auditionees handed me his publicity kit. He was a tres tattooed body builder and offered me a miniature tool kit with his contact info all over it. Also included was a red, white and blue emery board “tattooed” with his slogan. How was Bhagwan Sri Sathya Sai Baba any different? The guy's a saint and he’s palming cheap jewelry. Is this Puttaparthi or New Orleans?

Did Jesus hand out Jesus paraphernalia? Did he walk around with paintings of himself? And when he did perform a “trick” miracle (that water into wine thing) at least it was useful. Wine, or micro particle effluvia, anyone? Jesus didn’t put on a show. This Baba guy was a showman, pure and simple. And so is his acolyte, Derek O’Neil, who I wrote about in “Rock, Paper, Scissors”. This spiritual rock star bullshit really pisses me off, and what’s baffling is how many go for it. The accusations that Baba au Rhum sexually abused boys and young men received attention from the BBC in 2004, but was never investigated in India.

In contrast, I warily approached another one of these crowd pleasers. Why? Because it was a free event. I didn’t have to travel to India. She came to me. Amma is a famous gal, she’s known as “the hugging lady”. Is she a guru, a saint? All I know is people worship her. I don’t worship anyone. I explore. I see what someone has and decide if it is useful to me.

A personal growth friend was visiting me from Holland, and she encouraged me to go “get hugged” by Amma while she was in New York, at yes, the Manhattan Center again, on West 34^th (I’ve mentioned, lots of woo woo and new agey things take place there, as well as at the New Yorker Hotel around the corner on 8^th ave.) Huge throngs of people wait in line to see her, as if for a rock concert, and “homey don’t play that”. I don’t wait on line for hours for anything. Not my style.

I had an audition in the city and then a commercial shoot in New Jersey that afternoon. It was July. I wore all white linen and platform Kork Ease sandals, which I’ve sported since the 70s (even trudging through the woods in them at camp in Michigan). It was a beautiful day. Now, I believe in miracles and prayer, and I experience and use them in my life. It turned out that the Manhattan Center was conveniently located to my NJ pickup, and timing wise, I had 45 minutes to fight the hordes, get a hug, and run to the van. Not the way the teeming masses generally got to see her.

It was a crapshoot at best, but feeling confident and not at all needy, I decided to give it a go. By late morning when I arrived there were no crowds waiting outside. A promising sign. But the throngs were waiting inside, and they had all taken a number. I was asked at the door if it was my first time. “Yes”. That meant I was given some priority since there were a lot of repeat customers inside, just clamoring for a second or third hug since their last pilgrimage. I presented my case. “I know this may sound crazy, but I only have 45 minutes. What are the odds that I could get a hug?” Instead of laughing at me that person ushered me to another person who ushered me to another person. I repeated my question amidst the thousands of people sitting there.

As it so happened, I looked like a devotee in my summer whites from CP Shades and Old Navy.

A lady took me to the front of the room, and within 30 minutes I was on my knees and instructed to wipe my makeup off so it didn’t get all over Amma when she hugged me (she pressed peoples’ faces to her ample bosom which was clothed in white) I was like “hell to the no, I’m going to a shoot!” (being an extra not a principal in the commercial, I had to put my makeup on myself, beforehand). There’s God, and there’s work. I blotted my lipstick.

I’m not an “on my knees” kinda gal unless I’m looking for something on the floor, but since knees were the vogue (unless you had a physical problem impeding your kneeling) I went along with their little game. There were all types of people here. A lot of Indians and white folk dressed like Indians (you know, the tie dye thing, turbans, bindis, bracelets, fake Indian names). I took it in like the circus it was. There were vendors selling Amma souvenirs, saris and shawls as well as vegetarian food. Amma runs charities, too.

As I kneeled my way up to her I got a closer look at the goings on. Her entourage pushed us efficiently through the feed mill, “Here’s a tissue, take your make up off!” “Move up!” “Get ready!” “You’re next!” It was a finely tuned machine. An Indian couple with two small children was directly ahead of me and an older white woman was ahead of them. I watched Amma look with pure and deep love at the white haired lady and touch her face. I got choked up. Amma pulled the lady’s face tenderly to her chest and held her there in a long embrace. This tiny plump lady in her fifties has hugged millions of people. That’s what she does. That’s her job.

“GO!” Her handlers (one on either side of me) pushed me firmly forward like I was about to bungee jump. Her white garb was already covered in foundation and schmutz from peoples’ faces. She took my head, turned it to the left and mashed it forcefully into her chest. She had a vice grip. I could sorta see out of one eye but my nostrils were embedded in her vestments. She was smothering me. The room was filled with noise and she semi yelled in her language to a clump of assistants at her left (there was also a video person taping all this). From the tone of her voice I could have sworn she was ordering a large pepperoni pizza and a diet coke. She babbled loudly what sounded like chit chat. Oh, this was sacred, alright. Then she took my head and turned it abruptly to the other side, as if flipping a pancake, and proceeded to shove my nose back into her bosom. I was now suffocating to the right. It was surreal. Like a big politician grabbing your hand and near breaking it as he shakes it and says “Hi! Howareya! Hope I can count on you in the election!” Factory farm hugging.

She lifted my head slightly with both hands and whispered into my right ear. I remember a lot of MMMM’s, so, a Hindi version of “hummana humana, hummana, hummmmm”. And with that, I was pushed off. To the right, where this California lady (a veteran huggee, wearing tie dye) who had helped me get to the front now warned me “Be careful. You might want to keep your heels off. The energies are strong. You might feel light headed.”

Yeah, right. I thanked her (and others) for helping me that day. I took a few steps and my head started spinning. What the hell? I was woozy. Light headed. Dizzy. Power of suggestion? I was certainly no dreamy eyed convert. I was more of a silent heckler. The sensation lasted for 30 minutes. In the interim, I had to shove my platform sandals on and run to catch my connection to Jersey.

I really had no conclusion to form about the Amma thing. It was like being in a crowded train station with brief smushing, suffocation and some muttering. Other than the miracle of getting in and out so quickly and the 30 minutes of disorientation apres, there was nothing so special about it.

On set in New Jersey I watched pretty girls slurp Campbell’s soup seductively, placidly, as if the liquid lifted them to Nirvana itself. With the money they were making I don’t doubt it. Now that was sacred nectar. When it was all over I waited to go home on the train platform. It was a beautiful, quiet, bright summer evening and I was surrounded by trees and sky. You don’t see the sky so much in Manhattan.

Months later I was at a healing session with another character. He was highly focused and in another world as he hovered over my (clothed) body. He paused. “Are you a devotee of Amma?” he inquired. “No” I said, “Why?”. “I feel her energy swirling around inside you….” he responded. “You do?” I was shocked he picked this up. “Well" I paused, "I was hugged.” His observation was confirmation to me that there was something to the Amma phenomenon. If a stranger who knew nothing about me could sense this energy within me….well, something was verifiable, wasn’t it? That’s when this stuff starts coming together, when you get outside confirmations, and repeatedly, as is often the case.

So this Amma lady, she’s got followers. Lots of em. She sells trinkets. She has charities. I don’t know who or what she really is. Is she a healer? Maybe. A saint? Could be. One of her handlers said she neither slept nor ate. Really? Then how come she’s so fat? (another miracle, perhaps) Is she an avatar? That’s between her and God. Do I need to be hugged again? Nah, I’m good. Besides, her energy is still swirling around inside me…..

I don’t sense that she is a charlatan. There is much to recommend her having watched her documentary (although I only gave it two out of five stars on Netflix) Be forewarned, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve read several predictions from trusted spiritual sources that in the midst of all the crises going on as this world shifts out of the crap we’ve been swimming in to a world of effortless ease, beauty, and grace (you heard me right) that some charismatic charmer (I suspect a male) will appear out of nowhere and seem to have the answers to all the worlds problems. Don’t you believe it. Be discerning, my friends. Eyes and ears open. Elvis has left the building….©2011

The Gypsy Curse...a cautionary tale

2011-12-26T10:34:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine was in town from England. Martin was a lovely, chipper chap who fancied snorkeling and underwater photography, and had recently fallen in love with a French girl, Sara. They met in Europe at a personal growth class. I met him at a similar class in the States, a place I used to adore until I worked there. Despite my disillusionment at the behind the scenes operations, nothing takes away from how much I learned there over the decades as a student. I used their teachings to change my life. However, I’ll not return. Are you seeing a recurring theme in my essays?

Martin and I studied with a brilliant teacher. The person who taught my teacher was Bruce Di Marsico, deceased, and I urge you to look at his essays : http://www.optionmethodnetwork.com/ Bruce presents crystal clear guidance on how to examine your beliefs, and how to love and accept yourself, warts and all. When we compassionately accept the things we want to change it is easier to transform them. What we resist, persists.

Growth can be fun. This is not a belief a lot of people hold. They make change harder as a result. Remember, change is inevitable, growth is optional. And if you're not moving forward, you are moving backward. Life is in constant flux. So instead of fighting things, simply shift, flow, and move happily towards your wants instead of unhappily away from your "not wants". There's a huge difference between the two approaches.

Typically, we feel we have to hate things in order to dispense with them; a political opponent, a job, excess weight, a difficult person. Bruce said (roughly) “if you’re eating blueberry pie and you decide to switch to cherry, do you have to spit in the blueberry pie first? Can’t you just switch?” We spit, curse, damn and harrumph when we could simply move on.

I adore these teachings and I adore discussing them with friends who are similarly enamored of the beauty, simplicity and power of them. Sara was not in New York with Martin, but a friend of hers was visiting from Paris, Maria, a Moroccan “seer”. Martin was meeting her for tea downtown and was hoping she would read for him. I secretly hoped I could meet her too, but he wanted to be alone with her. He told me to meet him when they were done and I did. Maria was still there. She had olive skin, a French Moroccan accent. She was a bit scary to me, almost woozy in her mysterious demeanor. “Can I speak to you?” she asked. I knew what she meant. “Yes” I said, excited that I would get a reading, too.

“You haf problem with men.” she said in her thick accent. Great. Thud. So glad I could be here. “You haf too many szings, you haf no room for man.” Uh, yes, my home is “thing” heavy. Nice things but many of them. This means I can't date? “Also, there is old man living inside you.” “Where?” I looked down. What was she talking about? My grandfathers? One died before I was born, the other in the 1980s, and while I loved him, we didn’t have a complicated relationship. He wasn’t a complicated man. A nice mystic German, Leo was a ladies’ tailor who trained in Paris and fought in World War I. Whenever I visited my German grandparents, Papu gave me paper and pencil to draw with, his newspaper and magazine cartoon collection (cut out and taped in a black and white composition notebook) to peruse, and a bag of Hershey’s kisses or cashews. My mother told him to back off the nuts and chocolate when I hit puberty. Papu had a long nose, long ears (an indicator of long life) and smoked cigars and pipes, whose smells I love to this day. He had an errant hearing aid he adjusted constantly (and embarrassingly) in the auditorium of our Sunday School, The United Lodge of Theosophists in New York City. Papu’s wires and batteries emitted high-pitched squeals which he couldn’t hear, but we could.

Anyway, what the heck would Papu be doing “living inside me”? Made no sense. Maria’s demeanor was ominous and dark. The three of us left the tea room and walked around the East Village. Martin was taking me to dinner in gratitude for my putting him up, and Maria decided he could take her, too. I was not pleased. We were at my favorite Italian restaurant. She sat next to me and observed the clientele. “Thees ees a lesbian restaurant.” What was she talking about? This is a Mario Battali joint with couples and families. Did gays and lesbians go there? Undoubtedly, but it was no lesbian hot spot.

She brushed my thigh with her hand under the table. Aaah, yes. I could see her point. It was a lesbian restaurant now. I edged away from her on the banquette. We ordered glasses of wine and as she reached for her red she tipped it over to the left. This is a nice joint, complete with pristine white linen and superb service. Her sloppy behavior was galling, but she managed to catch the glass in her left hand. The glass then tipped to the right. Film special effects could not easily recreate this. She caught it again with her right hand and this time managed to hurl the glass in a 360 spin the likes of which I have never seen before or since. The wine was now airborne, and like paint from a spin-art machine, the red wine sprayed in a complete circle, dousing me, Martin, and the white table cloth. Our lesbian waitress was not amused.

Maria laughed. “The spirits must be thirsty! Ha ha ha ha ha!” Bruja. I was annoyed. So much for my classy, pleasant dinner with chipper Martin. No, I was saddled with murky Maria. She invited another compadre, Francois, to join us at the lesbian restaurant. French and gay, Francois was familiar with the puppet show Martin and I were to see after dinner. He worked in the art world, gave me his card, and asked me to stay in touch. I wasn't sure why.

I was in a dark mood as the two of us headed over to the theatre. “Are you alright?” Martin asked with his darling accent and genuinely caring demeanor. “No.” Who wants to be told they can’t date because they have too many objects d'art? “I don’t understand about the old man” He stopped cold. “You don’t?” I shook my head, forlorn. He was incredulous. “You don’t?” He reminded me of the old icon I had just dated (as described in “A Tale of Two Soldiers”) He had met him. He had comforted me when I cried about the relationship. “Oh. Oh, god, I didn’t think of that. You’re right. I think old man I think grandpa, not boyfriend. Ha. Right. Old man. Yes he is. Old. Living inside me? Uck!” I was determined to do a ceremony to “cut the cord” that night, after the theatre.

We saw a show by Basil Twist (an innovative puppeteer) and Joey Arias, a character I knew of from the days when Fiorucci graced my neighborhood. Joey was friends with singer Klaus Nomi (you saw Klaus’ strangely powdered visage in Jagermeister ads) and I saw them both since I worked in a tiny clothing shop named Suzuya across the street from Fiorucci, where Joey and Klaus hung out. I sold Whittall and Javits hats there the summer after graduating high school.

When Martin and I got home I ripped my house apart. Martin’s not a giant, but he’s taller than me. “Could you grab that, oh, and those?” I asked as I tore things off walls and shelves and threw them into bags. It was perfectly clear what needed to go. Stuff that no longer served me. Goofy funny stuff to represent my sillier side. Too many crafts, pitchers, and vases. Lovely, yes. Excess. Yes. I ended up collecting 35 shopping bags to donate to the Salvation Army. Not all that night, but I laid the groundwork for the demolition that evening. No ashtray was gonna get in the way of my love life.

Around the same time (roughly) I attended my first séance. A male medium approached me and asked if he could “come to me” (this is proper séance protocol to make sure you’re willing to receive a message). This fellow was a dead ringer for William Quan Judge, the co-founder with Madame Blavatsky of the Theosophical movement, which comprised the spiritual upbringing of my childhood. “WQJ” saw the ‘old man’ in my aura. He described the warped personality perfectly. “Is he dead?” I inquired, hopefully. He couldn’t tell. “Is there a message?” I asked. He shook his head. Then why was he here, I wondered? Don't you have to be dead to show up at a seance? ‘WQJ’ said that this was a very angry person, a rebel, and that he looked like an East Village hippie. I said “It wasn’t the East Village, but you’re close. You got him.” At least he was outside, not inside me this time.

James Van Praagh, the (deservedly) well known medium I’ve studied with three times said “when someone is in your aura they are thinking about you” . So I had confirmation from two strangers that A) he was thinking about me and B) LIVING INSIDE ME!!!! Crikey.

I used Martin as my witness. I addressed the ceremony to him. “Out, out damn spot! You were near impossible to pin down when I was SEEING you, but now that it’s over you’re HAUNTING me? How dare you! And you’re not even DEAD! “ He always had a lot of nerve.

I took a piece of rope to symbolize our connection and a sharp knife to sever it. I was on fire. I spoke words forever cutting this old geezer from my life. How dare he live in me! (whatever that meant) Could I charge him rent?

Several weeks later I got a message from Francois, the gay French friend of the Moroccan gypsy Maria. He said Maria had sent something from Paris for me. My stomach tightened. Why would she send me anything? What witchcraft was this, and why? What did she want from me? I asked him if he knew what it was. “Something to help your love life.” My housecleaning efforts had produced no discernable results. I left the house immediately.

I trekked all the way over to Chelsea where the art gallery he worked in was. This was about as far west you could go in Manhattan without dropping off into the Hudson River. My fears were assuaged immediately when I met the charming half-European, half-Asian boss of the Frenchman. She was warm, funny, endearing. An Earth Mother. They offered me tea. I felt right at home with both of them.

The mysterious Moroccan had sent me a single red fishnet glove. Why one? What was I to do with it? He told me to put it in my bedroom. I was grateful. Feeling empowered, warm and fuzzy after spending time with an Earth Mother who made up for the mysterious Moroccan, I trudged back home. I dutifully put the red glove in a drawer in my bedroom.

Well, nothing changed in my love life. I began to wonder whether the “gift” was a charm or a curse. I hadn’t asked her for anything. Then again, my friend hadn’t asked her to dinner that night, either. She had her own, strange ways.

I met with an adorable college pal from New Hampshire, of Italian and Lebanese descent. He’s exceedingly funny, bright, and good-looking. I told him about the mysterious glove and my concern about it. He responded, “I have a gypsy curse.” I was shocked. “What?” He pointed to his pot belly and said “This is a gypsy curse.” I burst out laughing. “How is that a gypsy curse?” He’d always been gorgeous and slender, but as the years progressed, he’d developed a gut. He’d also become a chef. He explained how when he was in high school his mother, an ob-gyn up in NH, had a client once who was a gypsy. She offered to “read” for the doctor and gave predictions for all three of her kids. About my friend, she said only “when he is older he will have a weight problem.” My pal was irritated that his mother didn’t ask for more. That’s his fortune? With all his genius as a writer, editor, humorist and chef, the only item of note from his future was a weight problem? We eyed his “gypsy curse” once more.

I never saw the mysterious Moroccan again. Martin married Sara, they remain friends with Maria. I developed a friendship with the French art guy due to our mutual interest in the occult (Don’t get scared, children. Occult simply means “that which is hidden”. It implies no evil of any kind) Over time, strange developments occurred in our relationship which I shall outline in another piece.

I became convinced that Maria’s energy was not good, and that just because you have vision doesn’t mean you are 'of the light'. I’ve known far too many psychics that have ability but no scruples, powers but no manners, gifts but no humility, heart, nor compassion. Spirituality trumps psychic ability any day. As we grow spiritually, as our heart centers expand, so naturally do our psychic abilities, as a toddler learns to walk. It is our birthright, our heritage. I will always value my own thoughts over anyone else’s vision. Never let someone else’s opinion of you (or prediction for you) become your reality. Respect yourself. Trust yourself.

I threw out the glove. I didn’t burn it because I didn’t want whatever spell she put on it to go out into the ethers. It went into landfill in Staten Island. My cousin Genia said “Something was wrong with it. Everyone knows that charms to attract love come in two’s, not one’s” For obvious reasons if you want to be part of a couple. Like attracts like.

Years later I had dinner with my college friend. I had seen him in the interim, but this time I was shocked. He was thin again! I said “What happened to your gypsy curse?” He said, “Oh. I’m eating less.” Oh. That was that. The power of suggestion, (and his overindulging in food and drink) had allowed him to grow a gut. He’s not the first man, or chef, to develop one. But his strength as a human allowed him to kill it, too. He ate half his entrée and took scant sips of our truly crappy happy hour “wine”.

"So You Think You Can Dance", Jesus and Mary?

2011-12-20T09:57:00.000-08:00

As a spiritual adventurer. I rely on my internal GPS to decide what’s real, what’s not, what has merit, and what has merit even if there’s some non-meritorious crap attached to it, while I wend my way through the strange, the inexplicable, macabre, bizarre, outlandish and absurd. Like a diamond covered in dirt, you don't thrust it aside because it is soiled, do you? You know the diamond’s intrinsic value regardless of rubble, mud, clay or coal. You clear the dirt. You take the gift.

It’s easy to dismiss the good with the bad when we judge and write people off. As soon as we discover someone has a human failing, some hypocrisy, some skeleton in the closet, we often dismiss the person out of hand. It concerns me that people don't walk their talk. However, as we teach others, we teach ourselves. We are all learning.

We are all flawed, as are most diamonds. Jesus was human. And divine, as are we. It’s our humanness that makes our ascent in awareness all the more meaningful. Gandhi, human. Martin Luther King, human, JFK, RFK, human, human, and exceptional in what they accomplished on this earth. Every saint was a sinner and every sinner a future saint. No one is as good, or as bad, as you think they are.

Neighbors defended O.J. because he “seemed so nice”. He just didn’t want to kill them, that’s all. He was rich, famous, handsome, and an American football icon, enough to "deify" any person in our culture and blind fans to the truth. The fact that he made Hertz commercials doesn’t mean he wasn’t homicidal. The best con men succeed because of their ability to blend, assuage and inspire, before they suck you into their cult, web of lies, or car (like good looking serial killer Ted Bundy). Fault our reliance on veneers, our admiration for a great set of teeth rather than a great character. Our bad.

When the East West Bookshop (may it rest in peace) opened their exquisite yoga studio on 5^th Avenue, NYC, they hosted a bevy of wonderful events, some sublime, some ridiculous. The classes were affordable at $5 to $25. I heard musician Laraaji (who teamed with Brian Eno in the 80s, among other accomplishments) give a demo on crystal singing bowls and then stayed for his concert after. We lay on our backs in the beautiful studio, high ceilings, white walls, blond bamboo floors, soft halogen lights and white candles. It was a sacred space. He walked among us and played gongs, bells and chimes over our heads. Fun. It was a play space for new age grownups.

Nancy Burson hosted a workshop at East West. I had seen her years ago at another new age event I was brought to by Sean David Morton, a new age speaker with whom I once studied what he called “spiritual remote viewing”. I had an extraordinary experience studying “real” CRV (coordinate remote viewing) with former Army Ranger David Morehouse at the Omega Institute for five long days. Being a former military man now friends with Deepak Chopra, he was working on his smile and peaceful demeanor, but he still ran our class like boot camp. Long hours, intense training, and he did not suffer fools gladly. That week requires an essay all to itself.

Because I was taken with this world (I recommend David’s book “Psychic Warrior”) I considered doing the (relatively) cheap day with Sean David Morton at New York’s classically cheesy “New Age Expo” (or is it new life expo? Yes, it is) The place is brimming with purple people and wind catchers, crystals and yoga mats, juicers and fortune tellers. The cheese factor is high. That does not mean that there are not genuine "gems" there.

My day with Sean David Morton was exhilarating. Even though we were in a gross hotel room in the slightly grizzled New Yorker Hotel on 34^th and 8^th (lots of spiritual events take place there, and at the Manhattan Center right around the corner) This is the hotel that Nikola Tesla lived and died in. What better pedigree for a bunch of people cleansing and photographing auras? Morton led us through yogic mudras, chants, movement and meditation, and it felt familiar to me, though not from this life. I was entranced with the class. He was dynamic. At the end of a six to eight hour day we did “spiritual” remote viewing exercises.

Now, when studying with Morehouse, we followed the military protocol he learned while working as a psychic spy for the CIA (yes, every government does this, just like cops go to psychics and mediums when they need help on cold cases. I have a friend who worked with the FBI for seven years and helped bring down an FBI top ten terrorist and provided accurate evidence that helped bring in the BTK serial killer. She has laser beam accuracy) Morehouse insisted that we begin viewing sessions by writing the date and military time down and proceed exactly as he had been trained to do, a very complex system involving controlled stages of collecting psychic data. The process was arduous, fascinating, frustrating, but ultimately satisfying. Some of our sessions took several hours and used up 20 or more pieces of paper. I felt like I was taking the SAT.

Morton gave us each a single sheet of paper and condensed the process to 15 minutes. We “viewed” two targets. I did really well on both and was exhilarated to know that I could get results in lighter, easier fashion. That being said, I’m grateful to have learned the harder way, too.

After Morton’s event he invited me to join him, other students and friends out for a bite. I was honored, still high on the teachings of the class. Morton lived in CA. While in NY that week he invited me to several new agey events, and I was grateful to go. Some were better than others. Actually, they were all kinda crappy and low rent. And eventually, it became clear that while Morton was married, he was not loyal, and he made stupid moves on me. Blcch. I rebuffed him.

One of the events took place in a Hungarian church basement in Manhattan. I don’t remember what was discussed (prophecies? alien visitations?) just the odd assortment of mostly Hungarian characters, including one that a new comedian friend there called “Hungarian Shrek”. There were two witchy women clad in black. One was emaciated and wore stark, round black Philip Johnson type eyeglasses. The other looked like Roseanne Barr from the 1980’s. They were both petite, though one was round at the middle with spindly little legs. They were severe in look and demeanor and I was wary but intrigued. I prefer my Spiritual people Sunny Side Up.

Turns out skinny gal was author and acclaimed photographer Nancy Burson, who had taught photography at Harvard and developed photographic technology that was eventually appropriated by the FBI to develop the projected aging process to help identify missing children. So, no slouch intellectually or artistically. Still, an odd bird. The other gal was Starr Fuentes, a Mexican Polish witch who wore a large diamond encrusted 'star' pendant, offset by her perma black garb.

Years later Nancy taught a class at beautiful, safe, calming East West Yoga studio. It was $20. I was in. She was talking about extra terrestrials ("extra celestials" she calls them, or EC’s) Seems she’d been communicating with ‘em and photographing them for a while. I bought her book “Lineage”. It was interesting, and it was there that I first learned of her teacher, the Irish Guru I wrote about in “Rock, Paper, Scissors”.

That evening she would also talk about orbs (spirit energy which is sometimes digitally captured by camera, and sometimes seen by people with their eyes, like me, as I wrote about in “The Woman with Bubbles on her Knee”). In “Lineage” she writes about a glow in the dark plastic Jesus, a tiny piece of crap chotchka someone gave her, and how he dances in the dark. He is not battery operated. He is not designed to dance.

I saw a few people I knew at the event (a semi small world, the new age community in new york city) It had a homey feel. I sat next to a very friendly young man and liked him immediately. Vinny. A Wall street guy from Jersey, married with kids. And a medium. Made my day, I loved the incongruity of him. Vinny brought his digital camera. He was ready to capture the orbs, or extra celestials, or whatever showed up in the dark that night. Nancy blackened the room. As a photographer, she had skills in this department. Prior to the darkening she placed plastic Jesus and Mary (they were about two inches tall each) under a strong Luxo lamp (that’s how I remember it, Pixar loving me) Her talk was not impressive, nor was her style, being shy, retiring, and weird. Still dressed in all black. Still emaciated. Still wearing those stark black Philip Johnson eyeglasses. Oh, and the Prema Agni, the motif of her 'spiritual teacher', the Irish Guru, around her neck.

The evening was much ado about nothing. Oh, I forgot! She gave out holy water at the end. I brought a little bottle to retrieve mine. It’s too embarrassing to talk about now, but basically, she claimed to have “manifested” some gold stuff (don’t ask) and said it purified water and raised its vibration sufficiently that it had healing qualities. Listen, in theory, this is all possible in my book. I believe Jesus could do it. And Jesus was not alone in being The Christ. The Buddha, any ascended Master, Avatar (who are the Girls, I still want to know?) can do it. The question was, would Nancy’s water do it? I had a bum knee. I brought my vessel just in case.

Glo in the Dark Jesus and Mary had soaked up the rays of the Luxo long enough. The room went black. Drapes were put up over the blinds since New York, even at night, has reams of light pouring in from all directions. Just try seeing a star at night here. We’re lucky we see the moon. Or the sun, for that matter.

Vinny was seated to my right, I recall a sense of anticipation and….boredom. Nancy put Jesus out first. She said that 'he insisted he go first'. Excuse me? Macho much? Not the Jesus I know and love! This was Narcissist Glo in the Dark Jesus. He stood there, all two inches of him. What bodega was he from? He glowed alright, as all glo in the dark thingamajiggies do. I paid $20 for this? It was incredibly pedestrian, puerile and dull. But then, I swear, Jesus started to dance. The merengue. That’s what it looked like to me, and I was in the front row of a not too large room. I turned to Vinny and whispered. “You see him moving?” “Yup”. Okay. Weird. Stupid. Probably our eyes playing tricks on us, right? Of course! Ridiculous bullshit this. Everything I was seeing was fuzzy, but I was seeing it.

Then she puts out Mary (Nancy, of course, being the ultimate puppeteer since she is perpetually clad in invisible black). Mary appears out of nowhere and stands next to Our Lord and Saviour, Glo in the Dark Plastic Jesus. I stare at The Blessed Mother. Okay. She starts to move too, but not the same as Jesus, no, she was swaying her hips left to right, so, more of a salsa thing going on (forgive me if I’m getting the salsa/merengue moves confused). Bottom line, Jesus was moving forward to back, and Mary was shaking her thang from left to right, a little hip action. Ludicrous, I know.

I muttered to Vinny. “Do you see her moving, too?” “Yes.” “But she’s moving differently, right?” “Right.”

Later Nancy distributed her “holy water”. She brought her own vessels, I didn’t need mine. She gave tiny quantities, I’m not good at measuring, a quarter ounce? She told us once we added it to other water, its healing abilities kept growing. Take some of that water and add it to more water. The supply would last forever. I was curious but skeptical of this strange, plastic evening.

Before we came up she announced: “I am not allowed to charge you for this! (by who, I ask?) But I CAN accept donations.” OH. Well, thank God “they” allow you to accept donations! My annoyance was dancing wildly now. I took one sample, no two, and left nothing in her donation envelope. I gave her $20 for the evening. That’s all she gets for making me stare at plastic.

Still, even with the “whatever” factor of the evening, I wanted to believe the water was special. I added it to a bottle of Smart Water (how smart was I?) I took a sip. Nothing happened. I took another sip another day. Same thing. What was supposed to happen, I would glow in the dark and merengue?

Vinny never did get any interesting images from his camera (forgive me Vinny if I remember this wrong) Or maybe he emailed me his “interesting” images and I didn’t find them so interesting.

Eventually, in frustration, I downed the entire liter of Holy Smart Water just to get rid of it. Coulda healed me. Coulda killed me. Nothing happened. (you’re shocked, I know) Vinny has a way cool new agey extraterrestrial website now: http://www.newagelive.com/. He compiles an amazing array of new age blogs, posts, and news. (when he’s not working on Wall Street, that is)

I LOVE this stuff. This is the Human Mystery. What’s real? What’s bullshit? It’s up to us to figure that out for ourselves. Do I think Burson’s a little loopy? Yes. She started selling rag dollies on the web, primitive looking Extra Celestial girls named “Celeste” for $150. Hard to take someone like that seriously. Seriously. Does that negate her photographic brilliance or her visions? No. Would I study with her again? No. I paid for her class, I bought her book, and I drank her damn holy water.

What did I get from it? A great fucking story!

Then I took a class with her pal Starr Fuentes. One night. $38. I decided to do so when I learned from her website that she studied with a curandera in Mexico named Esperanza. I had read about Esperanza in Florinda Donner’s books “Shabono” and “Being in Dreaming” (both amazing. Florinda was friends with Carlos Castaneda). I got both books for free when I worked for HarperCollins publishers. Lucky for me, division HarperSanFrancisco published mystical stuff, which I received for free in lieu of an actual paycheck (publishing paid notoriously low, and given the current digital and audio book markets, I imagine even less now). I got monopoly money.

Starr’s class was in a dumpy, fluorescently lit room probably in the West 20's or 30's (again, lots of spiritual classes in that ugly industrial area). We were not allowed to ask personal questions that evening, we had to phrase them “generically” . She looked around the room. “Who’s thinking of multiple orgasms?” No one answered. She glowered at us. “Oh, right, that would be me.” The girl was a comedienne. I appreciated that. I wanted to know about the crappy married guy, Sean David Morton, new age guru, who seemed to know so much and touched me deeply as a student, but skeeved me out as a person and a woman. I piped up, “How can you reconcile someone who seems to know a lot metaphysically but doesn’t seem to be a person of integrity?” She cocked her head to one side like a bird.

“Who’s thinking of chocolate?” she barked and looked around the room suspiciously. No one answered. “Oh, right, that’s me again.”

She focused her gaze on me.

“Did you learn anything?”

“Yes. Yes I did.”

That was it.

I got the gift.

Thus endeth the lesson. © 2011

The Woman with Bubbles on Her Knee

2011-12-18T17:40:00.000-08:00

She had a brisk walk and an upright posture. A slender woman with New York panache and white hair, she looked to be around 60 or older. I saw her glance at my goofy dachshund and smile gently, and I felt inspired to engage with this woman. I noticed her unique modern necklace, a string of large clear glass bubbles, around the size of round plums. Although transparent, the necklace made a strong visual statement. She wore red and grey, the grey tweed skirt offsetting her red sweater so that the color popped. The red further showcased the clear bubbles that lay in a ring around her neck, like she got out of a bubble bath of glass orbs.

She admired my dog. I complimented her necklace. “Thank you” she said. “I just love bubbles.” I paused, then launched in. “Do you know what they mean?” I put myself out there as I often do, this time with a stranger. “No” , she replied, but you could tell she was intrigued. I was about to explain her obsession.

I told her about an experience I had at a shamanistic workshop decades ago. Hundreds of us had gone into deep meditation with Lynn Andrews, a teacher whose books I adore. I had been very trepidatious about taking this seminar. Lynn had been through all sorts of tests with her two teachers, Native Americans from Manitoba, Canada. During Lynn’s trials with her teachers she’d been starved, frozen, bloodied and terrified in addition to being nurtured and enlightened. She was apprentice to Agnes Whistling Elk and Ruby Plenty Chiefs over several decades and become a woman of power herself. What trials and tribulations would she submit us to over the weekend? I wasn't in the mood to be taunted.

When I arrived on West 34^th Street there were Native Americans protesting Lynn’s seminar. This added to my anxiety about taking my first ever new age weekend seminar. The protesters held signs and chanted “She doesn’t represent us!” Lynn took to the podium inside the ballroom where we were to spend the weekend right off the bat. Lynn, a blonde woman from Beverly Hills, said “They’re correct. I don’t represent them. I represent myself alone, and the teachings of my teachers, Agnes Whistling Elk, Ruby Plenty Chiefs and the Sisterhood of the Shields to which we all belong. That is all I have ever claimed.” She cut their argument off at the knees. Lynn was in her power. I was impressed.

But I was in no mood for a sweat lodge. This was the Manhattan Center, built in 1906 by Oscar Hammerstein to house operatic and other theatrical events, then purchased in 1922 by the Masons, and is now in the hands of the Unification Church, yes, the Moonies. And this was decades before the sweatlodge “spiritual warrior camp” debacle overseen by James Arthur Ray in Arizona, 2009 that resulted in the death of three people. At any rate, I had heard of personal growth events where you couldn’t go to the bathroom or eat. (that would be EST, I believe) I’m big on going to the bathroom and eating. I consider them basic priveleges. I do not like being deprived, and I do not like being told what to do. I queried the organizers before signing up. They said I could bring lunch and I would have access to toilets. “Are we sitting on the floor? Can I bring a pillow?” I am no ascetic. “Yes”. They were okay with me being comfortable. Phew! But I was still worried about this mysterious realm I was entering.

We did many meditations. The lighting was subdued and the ballroom, which was dark and decorated in Egyptian style, had a Masonic feel to it. I was reminded of the ceremony in “When Peggy Sue Got Married” . We delved into mystical realms of our own subconscious to divine things including what our power animals were. There was live drumming and trance-inducing music. I was in the right place.

As an amusing aside, there was but one man there, and a famous one at that. He must have been petrified to be surrounded by so many women, especially after the recent success of “Desperately Seeking Susan”. It was Aidan Quinn, wearing an oversized button down plaid flannel shirt, a wedding ring, and a name tag that read. “BRIAN”. He ascended the stairs as I descended. I looked him in the eye, glanced at his nametag, and moved on. No one else seemed to recognize him. We were there for Lynn, LYNN! We Bacchantes were frenzied in our devotion to spirit and personal growth, not some gorgeous, charming, desirable movie star. I think “Brian” may have been a little surprised and disappointed after all was said and done that no one noticed. Maybe he was relieved. And maybe he had as meaningful a time there as I did.

I was in a daze with the dim light, drumming, Lynn’s mellifluous voice, soft carpeting and my pillow beneath me. But I had my wits about me, and my snacks. I purchased an arrowhead carved out of black obsidian meant to deflect and remove negativity and a small abalone shell to hold the sacred sage that Lynn suggested we burn to purge the air and welcome spirit.

I awoke from one meditation lying flat on my back, facing the ceiling (which was very high this being a ballroom) but just under the edge of the mezzanine. I could see the room around me: the Egyptian motifs painted everywhere, the ornate plaster columns, the hundreds of people (excuse me, women) lying around on either side . I could see Lynn on the stage and her drummers scattered about the room. I saw something else, too. Approximately six to eight feet above me at about eleven o’ clock, there was a Bubble. A clear Bubble. It was about 18-24 inches in diameter. It looked like a perfect soap bubble except it was not iridescent, and it was unwavering.

I was curious and confused. I knew it wasn’t normal. It was extraordinary. So I continued looking around the room to review at all the details I just described, saw them clear as day, and the bubble too. I knew the bubble couldn’t “be there” in 3D so what the heck was it? I put my hand in front of my face. Yup. That was my hand. I even pinched myself like people do in movies. I’d never done that, but it’s what you do when you want to make sure you’re not "seeing things", right? The bubble remained. Still lying on my back I turned my head far to the right, eyed the woman lying next to me, then glanced at the stage further out, Lynn standing on it, then whipped my head quickly back to see yes, the Bubble. It remained fixed in the air, six to eight feet above me at approximately eleven o’clock. What could be a rational, material explanation for something like this? There wasn’t one. After what felt like ten minutes, the bubble was no longer there.

I spent the next five to ten years asking anyone “way out” or spiritual “Do you know what bubbles are? Have you ever seen a bubble?! Do you know what they mean?” Nothing. Niente. I was on my own. But I continued to see them on occasion when I’d awaken from sleep in the wee hours, when I was “between the worlds”. My eyes acclimated to my bedroom in the dead of night, the shadows, the nightstand, the light from First Avenue, New York City, all to the soundtrack of the ever-present din of the 59^th Street Bridge traffic. I was coming to, coming into consciousness, and there would be a bubble, usually to my left, four to six feet above me now (my ceilings are not as high as a ballroom) same general size, one to two feet in diameter. Clear, unwavering. Inexplicable. One time it glowed red and that disturbed me. It seemed ominous. What the heck did red mean? But by now, bubbles were the norm to me.

I was watching an A&E show (or some such) on Civil War hauntings, about the many historical sites that have unaccountable goings on. That is unless you believe in ghosts. The battle fields, museums, and historical landmarks all have paranormal activity. They called in a psychic or two to explain what was baffling the staff and guests at one such site. They showed a civil war soldier walking along, presumably a ghost (this was a reenactment). He was surrounded by hundreds of small bubbles. BUBBLES. I was sitting on my couch. I screamed. “BUBBLES! BUBBLES! IT’S THE BUBBLES!!!! BUBBLES!!!” I scared the hell out of my two cats who shot off. I was on the edge of my seat, glued to the TV. My potential redemption was imminent. “Please, psychic lady, tell me what the bubbles ARE.”

Psychic Lady said “There are a lot of spirits here.” “SPIRITS!!!!!THE BUBBLES ARE SPIRITS!!!!!” I danced around my living room, whoopin’ and hollerin’ like a revivalist. I was so gratified that someone could validate, mention, describe, SHOW what I had seen. Thank you, Psychic Lady on A&E!

So back to the lady on the sidewalk. Sweet. Sad. Overly attached to her dead dachshund, whose (scant) ashes she wore in a tiny charm on her sterling silver bracelet. She thrust her dead dog’s memorial card at me. This gal had just inherited a big dog and moved down to New Orleans to give it the space she felt it deserved. She’s living in a flood zone. Seriously, people. Coastal living, not the way to go. Katrina was just a warning…Don’t rebuild in hurricane, flood or tornado country. Mother Nature will always win. Move upland. The water levels are rising and will continue to do so.

She was tall, slender, elegant, and could have graced the cover of Town and Country. Her mother had been a show room model in the fifties. Since I’m a passionate yakker about spirit and we both love animals, we exchanged emails. She was wearing a pencil skirt and had a tattoo on her knee. I saw it clearly when she bent down to pet my dog. Not what I’d expect for a woman of her ilk. It was a bunch of multi-colored balloons. Alright, so not exactly bubbles, but a similar motif. She was drawn to bubbles and balloons. For “gaiety”. And yet as I got to know her, I discovered how deeply devoted she was to sadness, grief and mourning. The tattoo and necklace were vain attempts to cheer herself up.

As we explored friendship I encouraged her to lighten up, take a bubble bath, chew some bubble gum, for god’s sake. She said bubble baths were indulgent. “That’s the point.” I replied. “Indulge yourself. You’re too serious. You’re too sad. Lighten up, have fun!” She had Germanic and Scottish ancestry and wasn’t fighting it.

Her middle name meant “sorrow”. I knew a girl with the same sad name. She was born as her young father had a stroke, from which he never recovered. Mother and father were in the hospital at the same time, one giving life, one departing from it. I told Bubble Lady to jettison her sad middle name. She was appalled. She LOVED her name and what it meant. In fact, she was in love with her sorrow. Grief was her way to cling to those she loved who’d left the physical.

I’ve grappled with grief and sadness for many long years. I’ve also sought to release them, and never with a drug beyond a glass of wine. It’s not inevitable that we succumb to our circumstances. We’re the ones who decide how we respond to the circumstances, and what we believe about them. Was it a tragedy? Or was it an experience? I guarantee if you choose to view something (even something that was terribly hard for you) as a tragedy instead of an "event", you will make it much, much harder for yourself. If your beliefs (say, “life’s a bitch and then you die”) are not producing happy results, consider some new beliefs if you want to be happier. Take inventory of the software in your head. You’re the programmer.

So, what’s in a name? I knew a gal given a cheerful name at birth. One of the most depressing people I met. Just this side of anorexia, smoked and exercised like a fiend. A New York City classic clad in black, stuck in spin class, sipping black coffee, and pondering morbidity. Turns out she was named to compensate for the death (prior to her birth) of her elder sibling whom she “replaced”. I have no reason to believe anyone in her family is any happier than she. Addicted to sadness, misery and grief is a crappy way to go through life. A happy name is no antidote to a sour outlook.

So, what’s in a name? Whether it’s bubbles or balloons, “sadness” or “gaiety”, whatever is encapsulated in a name, necklace or tattoo, there’s nothing to a symbol unless you live up to it. Consider Mafioso who wear Christian crosses and knock-off bags in Chinatown sporting the Chanel motif. “Coco Canal” my cousin calls them. Don’t talk about it. Be about it.

A Tale of Two Soldiers, or “”Please, Squeeze the Charmin!”

2011-12-15T18:52:00.001-08:00

We live in a world of appearances. This world has been referred to as a school, an illusion or a dream by many spiritual traditions. It’s a convincing illusion, as are dreams, hence the comparison. Nightmares are very unsettling while we’re in them, sometimes even after we wake up. Similarly, we buy our life story hook line and sinker until we “awake” or die, whichever comes first. And that’s how it’s meant to be. We’re meant to buy the conceit of being who we seem to be this spin on the human merry go round. We suspend our disbelief for a lifetime.

If it’s all a dream, then nobody actually gets hurt, just like the movie goers who pay to be scared. We will never understand the complete bigger picture, but I’m awfully fond of contemplating it. This is a quantum universe. Don’t get lost in your Starbucks.

We believe we are this outfit, body, ego, personality, and our accomplishments. When we die, we don’t take any of that with us. The only thing we take is the love we gave, the love we received (this is a gift to the giver, as well as to ourselves) and lessons learned. Life is consciousness. Life/Love/God is ever expanding. And the vehicle of that expansion is Us. You and me. We are God’s ambassadors, Gods in training. We increase Her splendor through our experience, we are His field reporters. It uses our eyes to See. We are the hands and feet of the Divine. It’s a great job.

I love people who step up to the plate, take the heat, rabble rouse, incite the ire of others, sometimes die for it, sometimes not, but always leave the world a changed place. I love Tallulah Bankhead for cartwheeling across the stage with no underwear on. I’m drawn to courageous people. Intrepid souls who buck the tide and challenge the status quo. My father was one of those people, so was my mother. They helped people, anonymously, or friend to friend, and my mother told me it was always better to give directly than to an organization, because you knew where your money was going.

There are truly great organizations these days (Greenpeace for starters) and I do donate to them when I'm able. That trend will continue as humans wake up to their divine potential to reverse the ill effects of their behavior over the millenia. However lots of organizations are not as effective as they’d like to seem. The American Cancer Institute (the best endowed charity in the world) comes to mind. Are they in the business of improving things (cancer rates have not gone down) or fund-raising? Watch the movie “Food Matters”, chock full of information about health and healing and the medical and drug industries.

The issue I choose to tackle here is that of appearances, of impeccability, and of contradictions within the human experience. Since I value authenticity and integrity in my friends and role models, I share these stories with you.

There was a man whose story I was particularly drawn to, one who’d made a name for himself in the 70’s and who shall remain nameless until he croaks. I was moved to tears by the A&E biography about him. His was an uphill battle to do what he believed in, and people reviled him for it. I thought he was impressive, noble, cool, and attractive for an old guy. He had a couple of decades on me.

As fate would have it I met this maverick while traveling. We hit it off right away. It was surreal meeting and connecting with him. He was odd, garrulous, a bit preoccupied with himself, but the excitement of being with him overshadowed that. Mostly. I was wary, but intrigued.

We ended up having a relationship once I got over my qualms about being physically intimate with someone whose body had so much more mileage on it than mine. I also had to contend with the fact that he was loopy and difficult, but I was still clinging to The Legend.

The relationship was difficult. He was impossible to pin down or make plans or with. He was elusive, didn’t want to have real conversations or listen to me. When it came down to it, I was only useful to him to the extent that I gave good audience when he shared his rants and paranoid perceptions while up on his soapbox. When I wasn’t pissed, I felt empathy and tried to lighten his load and tickle him into happiness. Instead, his anger and malevolence dragged me down. I took it until his callousness turned to cruelty and it became unbearable. The man who earned his reputation as a person of integrity turned out to be a miserable misanthrope.

The very nobility that I thought he stood for was nowhere evidenced in his personal life, even down to his spitting gum on the sidewalk, a particularly perfidious expression of contempt for his fellow man.

He took care of me at times and at others I felt like one of Blue Beard’s wives under lock and key. The man I thought of as a model citizen refused to help people in need in his small town. He still has fans who think he’s a stand up guy. They haven’t dated him. At his advanced age he’s still cashing in on his cachet as an infamous martyr of sorts. Having been through the mill with him I now think he’s just a cranky old man. And I don’t believe the gauntlet he ran “made him” that way. I think his difficult and selfish nature led him to take on that gauntlet in order to get noticed. From my post-dating perception, it was ego, not nobility that gave him the chutzpah to do what he did. It took a self-aggrandizing narcissist to buck the odds and win. Whatever his motivations, he got a tough job done and changed history. He was soldier number one. Korea.

Soldier number two was Vietnam, a man I met shortly after dating Korea. He was new to the storytelling circuit I was already on and he asked for my feedback and advice since I was more well-versed as a thespian and solo artist. He was a loyal audience member when I performed, and I his. A fireman who had survived the 1970’s when “the Bronx was burning”, his stories were heart felt and gut wrenching. He got choked up talking and I got choked up listening. Now, here was a real man of honor. He’d been an EMT medic as well as fireman and shared gruesome tales of life and death, loss and salvation, fear and courage. I was proud to know him. He was grateful to know me and we shared war stories, mine of dating, his of fires and killing fields.

As time wore on our relationship shifted. He became a big star on the storytelling circuit, New York being hero hungry, particularly for firemen and cops after 9/11. He went from being green to pro in no time. And deservedly so. He had the goods. Despite my confidence and belief in myself, the organization we were both associated with hailed him as a hero and I got left in the dust. Sigh…

But we maintained our friendship. He was married with kids and grandkids. During a storytelling evening where the topic was intimacy (read “sex”) another side of him came out I wasn’t so comfortable with. Turns out his marriage had some issues. And the way he expressed those issues was rather disturbing to me. Disrespectful. Strange. Emotionally violent.

Then it turned out he had major issues with one of his children, he wasn’t talking to her. His fury was so intense he said “if she was lying on the ground in front of me dying, I wouldn’t lift a hand to help her.” Gulp. My opinion of him was starting to shift. During other talks, his violent hatred of Barack (seemed his other firemen buddies felt the same way) his opposition to abortion (even though his wife had had one and he supported it) was giving me pause as to who, exactly, this “hero” was.

He assumed because my father was a pilot and navigator in WWII and I was proud of him, that I was totally and unabashedly pro-military. Uh, that would be a no. There hasn’t been a war since WWII that I’ve understood or approved of even a little. I don’t like the loss of civil liberties and privacy we’ve incurred since giving over our power to the government post 9/11. I don’t believe that living in fear and building wall after wall and arsenal after arsenal is the American way. The Military Industrial Complex is happy to keep terror alerts and their budget sky high. When people are afraid they are weak and when angry, blind. Anger is not a statement of power. It is a request for power.

Turns out this hero friend of mine was a very angry man.

He ended up getting a job in the airline industry, which thrilled him to no end. He got to be around airplanes. He was like a little kid going to work, and he was able to travel. He offered to take me to the Smithsonian Air Museum in Virginia. I wasn’t really eager to spend a whole day with him (he assured me it could be done, quick flights down and back) but it was better than his offer to take me to Aruba, which I couldn’t quite fathom. He never made a pass at me, I knew his wife and kids, but the invite wasn’t inviting. He got me with the aeronautics/Dad thing.

I agreed to join him on a freezing January day a few years ago. He picked me up in his car long before the crack of dawn and launched in on his first tirade about “fucking Al Gore and his fucking global warming lie, it’s fucking 40 degrees below zero, there’s no global warming….” Uh oh. Was I in for a ride. As the day progressed, as he showed me off to his colleagues at the airport (I was a pilot’s daughter, and Dad was an officer at that) I became increasingly uncomfortable. I said less and less as I observed the behavior of, essentially, Major “King Kong” (Slim Pickins) in “Dr. Strangelove”. I was wondering how I would get through this day. I rued my decision to join him.

We got on the plane and he remained giddy with joy at the prospect of A) flying, B) going to the Air and Space Museum again (he’d already been several times) and C) it was becoming increasingly clear, being with me. My “sensitivity” was kicking in and I felt his “energy” creeping over to my side of the armrest. I felt sick emotionally, like Penelope Pussycat, the black and white cartoon kitty Pepe le Pew stalks. The day ahead was looking interminably long.

Our flight was delayed because the water in the bathroom was frozen. Seemed a petty enough problem, but turns out it was major. My companion said we might have to take another flight down south, making the day longer, or we could go somewhere else. Somewhere else? I wanted to go home.

I kept quiet and stared out the window. It was a gorgeous day, sunny, clear blue skies, lovely clouds. I was thinking of my Dad. “Help” I gulped, silently. I wanted to get away from this man. The “hero” had turned into a nightmare.

Our flight was cancelled, and when my friend looked at the board to see where else we could go, I continued to keep a low profile. Nothing worked out. He drove me back to the city and asked if I wanted to get breakfast. “No, thanks. I’m okay. ” I was exhausted. From the cold, from being up at an ungodly hour, and from the dawning realization of who I was really with. I said “thank you and goodbye” and drank two glasses of white wine as soon as I got upstairs.

I am learning to get to know people and not buy the hype. It’s important to squeeze the Charmin. The more “heroes” I find have clay feet, the more impressed I am with myself. And that’s the lesson I want to be learning. Oh, and of course, I believe my Daddy helped ground my plane. You should know that about me by now. Sure, it was cold that day. But plenty of other planes got off the ground. Just not mine. © 2011

The Gerry Bear

2011-12-11T16:19:00.000-08:00

The Gerry Bear

All right kids, gather round the campfire….It’s time for magic. Are you ready? You can fancy yourself logical and well-educated and still make room for the profound and inexplicable. I’m smart enough to know I don’t understand everything, but I can feel my way through realms unknown. In other words, I activate my intuition, hone it, sharpen my skills, so I can discern the “other” things from the “other” worlds. You know the invisible worlds I’m talking about? The signals that transport images from TV station to TV set, from a studio to your brain, all through the airwaves. The great Canadian philosopher Marshall McLuhan said “Do I believe in an invisible world? Of course. I watch TV.”

Try explaining a digital watch to a peasant in the middle ages. Or a microwave oven. An iPhone? All magic is science not yet understood. So suspend disbelief like all smart children and enchantresses do. This is the time for Great Things. This is the time for Salvation, for Redemption, for Upliftment and Ascension. Now is the time to lift our eyes up to the Heavens and out of Page Six (tabloid trash talk for New Yorkers).

I’m an unabashed mystic. I know some, perhaps many, of my friends think I’m Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs and that’s fine with me. But why is Harry Potter so successful? The Catholic Church? Either everybody is nuts or everybody’s onto something, like a dog hooked on a scent. I’m not going to defend the intelligence of people who believe in things they can’t see. I, for one, am a firm believer in the Atom, the Microbe, and the Virus.

I’ve been on a vision quest for a long, long time. Having lost my parents at an early age was part of it. Their both being spiritualists was another. The fact that I was born “knowing” that there is more to this life, this Earth, than meets the naked eye, yet another. Einstein said, “The more I study the universe, the more I believe in a higher power.” He also said “It's not that I'm so smart, it's just that I stay with problems longer.” You can be practical and mystical all at once. The best of us are, one foot firmly planted in “reality” (the illusion that we live in) and the “dreamtime”, one of many other realities we are engaged in. We live wild and extravagent lives every night in our sleep. People have disassociative personalities, and split ones. Why is it so hard to comprehend that we have a finger in many pies? Our essence is multi-dimensional and inter-dimensional. You don’t have to understand this to contemplate it.

I’m not afraid to speak out now. Being a very private person and a walking contradiction (a performer who is shy, a speaker who is not an exhibitionist) I’ve got plenty of paradoxes co-existing within me. We all do. We’re not all of a piece. As I get older I’m more concerned with the truth, MY truth, than what people think of me. So I’m here to share my tale of magic and miracles, mysticism and intuition, tarot and fairy tales. Settle down and get comfortable…Tea? I’m drinking a small pot of ginger chai with some organic milk. Aaah.

Do you know what “apports” are? They are the physical manifestation of spiritual energy, i.e., things appearing out of thin air. “Apports are 'gifts' that manifest from non-physical to physical reality. Manifestation may be linked to teleportation or telekinesis by one or more of the people in the room. Many believe a spirit, such as a deceased loved one, has brought the gift, usually linked to an observer in the room. Often the gift has symbolic significance for the person receiving it.” (crystalinks.com) More simply, Hamlet said: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,  than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Horatio wisely spoke: “O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!” (Willy S.)

To put it another way, Lewis Carroll said “Callooh Callay, Oh Frabjous Day!” Lighten up, kids! We’re here to have fun. Seriously. At the end of the day, when all our galoomphing and galumping is done, it’s time to chillax and get jiggy with the Divine, which is another facet of Us. Joy is sacred my friends. Joy is sacred. Have fun. I’ll help you.

I’ve heard of thousands of seed pearl apports dropping from the ceiling during a channeling, or rose petals falling from thin air. I like this. It appeals to me like the “Gazillion Bubble Show” Off-Broadway does to tourists.

Personally, I’d like to be the recipient of a handful of juicy, irridescent yellow diamonds. And you? Parisian chocolate? A nice croissant? Is the idea of something beautiful and magical appearing out of thin air delightful and fun? Or too silly to entertain in your sensible head? Okay, then stick with your black coffee, New York Times and tax returns (blcch). Or are you willing to wander back to childhood, a time when possibilities existed, the Imagination was Queen, and you allowed yourself to play? What do you think Einstein was doing all day? He was playing. Playing with his imagination. In a very intelligent and intuitive way. Naps have been pivotal to many inventors, including Einstein and Thomas Alva Edison who received key information in the dream (ie subconscious) state. So much for the left brain. It’s fine, it’s great. But it’s not everything.

And where’s that old left brain gotten us so far? War. Lots and lots of war. Pollution. Crap economies and thriving recessions. World wide poverty and understandable unrest. Dictatorships. Secrecy. Conspiracies and faux democracies. Oh, and lots and lots of malls, hydrogenated fats and styrofoam. Plastic spoons. Yahoo. It’s time to go to the Dark Side, the Dark side of the Moon, the Shadow side, the subtle world of spirit and the brilliance of the supraconscious. The night sky filled with sparkling stars. Galaxies and Nebulas of color and light. It’s within all of us. The Enchantress. The Divine Feminine. Take a ride with me now.

I equate magic with miracles, by which I mean real events which are (as yet) inexplicable. Synchronicities, “coincidences”, doors opening and things just “working out”. And yes, I credit this phenomenon to an understanding and application of the ages old Law of Attraction and what Abraham-Hicks calls “being in the vortex” It’s a good place to be. (check out Abraham-Hicks CD/Book “Getting into the Vortex” I’ve found it to be life changing) Without further delay, I will launch into the fireworks display of magic in my life.

I was out walking my mini longhaired black and white dachshund (who looks like Snoopy, the obsession of my youth) in Central Park. In addition to having three-inch legs, hers are somewhat deformed, which means that she hops rather than walks, and at an angle. She looks a bit like a seal flopping across the ice. It was early spring in New York, so it was cold, brown and gray. There were a couple of patches of grass and stray flowers, but no leaves on the trees yet. But oh so important, the sun was out in blazes. I saw something lying on the ground at a crossroads. It looked like a stuffed animal. Mimi loves stuffed animals, but I figured it’s got to be dirty and disgusting, it was lying on the ground, right? Some ice cream covered kid used it as a napkin then dropped it while running off toward more balloons and cotton candy. (I’m thinking Augustus Gloop from “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”). I walked on but changed my mind and turned back to inspect it. It was a Teddy Bear. He was sitting upright, as if waiting for someone.

He wasn’t the cutest Teddy Bear I’d ever seen, but more important, he was clean. He was so brand new his tags were still on. Perhaps this would be a suitable toy for my diminutive German dog after all. I looked around guiltily for a second thinking ‘what are the odds that some kid could actually find the spot that this Bear was dropped?’ The Park is 843 acres; Augustus is probably meadows away crying his little eyes out. Or perhaps Mrs. Gloop has shoved a hot dog in his mouth and promised him two more bears.

The Bear, whose tag read “HAPPY” is a Steiff, and no, not one of the high end Steiffs. I coveted those tiny pandas and koalas in the old dark FAO Schwartz store in the 60’s and 70’s (where Bergdorf’s Men’s store is now, not the cheezy plastic pavilion in the GM building today) as a kid, to no avail. This Bear was large and probably made in China. Still, I figured it cost at least $30. That’s a nice dog toy.

Then all the “magic” started hitting me. Did my father leave it there for me? I lost my dad when I was 5 years old, and he had lost his teddy bear in a marital accident. My mother threw out the sawdust filled Bear from his childhood in Nuremberg, Germany while “cleaning” one day. She decided leaking sawdust was sufficient excuse to dispense with it. This did not go over well with my dad. Never come between a man and his Teddy Bear.

Through mediums I’d begun having increased contact with both of my parents, and was learning the different ways they communicated with me directly. I started being able to verify the messages, including electronics turning on by themselves in my apartment (my iPod stereo system mysteriously turned itself on and played one of my favorite songs from ‘shuffle mode’ while I was two rooms away). I’ve had enough such experiences that I accept them as the norm, as friendly communication from those in spirit I love, although I’m still at a loss as to what many of the messages mean. My toaster turned on by itself while I was in another room and emitted a loud, high pitched electronic squeal. I figured it was a communication from spirit but who was it from? I screamed out “What does that mean? I don’t speak toaster!!!” Still, I will look first and foremost for a “logical” explanation as to how something “magically” happened.

But then I accept the gift. My parents exist on a different bandwidth, but their consciousness, personalities and love are still here. They’re alive. They’re just thinner. As I’ve uplifted my energies over the years, I’ve been able to receive theirs. By attuning to the higher frequencies and subtler energies I’ve been able to receive and start to comprehend the gifts of “heaven”. It’s exhilarating. I’ve made contact. We have conversations. And I accept their gifts as well as their messages.

So, Steiff, my Dog, and my Dad are all German. I decided that Dad was gifting my Gerry dog with a Gerry Bear. I get to use that word because my dad fought in WWII with the US Army Air Corps, and he bombed the hell out of Germany, which he emigrated from with his parents when he was five.

Happy the Gerry Bear sat there waiting for me and my pooch. You can come up with whatever explanation you want. It doesn’t matter to me.

The dawning realization that it was a gift from heaven grew stronger and stronger. The bear is as big as my dog, and when I was a wee child Dad gave me a doll as big as I was. It’s all perfect. And to the naysayers I advise they eat a cookie, dance a jig and LIGHTEN UP. That’s how we light up the world. And that’s our job, isn’t it? The most important directive of the Law of Attraction is to FEEL GOOD. So Feel Good, People. Have some fun. Happy people are nice people.

The magic continues. While walking home from Bed Bath and Beyond one day I found a pair of aviator sunglasses on the ground. Now, I wouldn’t be caught dead with them today because they’re disgustingly TRENDY, however, I sported them as a kid in the 70’s and rightfully so since my papa was an aviator. But for free, I figured I’d take ‘em home. I washed them and tried them on. They were mens’, way too big for me, so I slated them for my Salvation Army donation bag. I put them on the kitchen counter to dry and froze. I was transported in time to the 60's, when my father’s aviators lay on the kitchen counter, or the dining room table, or wherever the hell they were. I remembered the real horn thingies that rest on the bridge of the nose of his shades. (I tried googling the name of that eyewear piece, no easy answer came. Anyone? Like it's pressing...). The hair stood up on my body. My father was in my house, in my kitchen. In my life. It had been awhile since I’d seen his things lying around the house.

A few weeks later I found a book in approximately the same spot on the street. It was Randy Pausch’s “The Last Lecture” and if you haven’t read it yet, google the actual speech on the web. Randy was a dashing and brilliant computer science professor at Carnegie Mellon. He was also a devoted husband and father, as was mine. Randy developed pancreatic cancer, the same number that took down Steve Jobs, and my mother. So I was on familiar terrain as I read about his descent into illness, and the world of tearing yourself away slowly and consciously from those you love.

The book grew on me as I read it. As it progressed, as he got to the part where he spoke to his children, and wanted them to know someday (since they were very small) how he loved them, how he perceived them, how he thought of them, it hit me: my father was communicating his love to me through this book. He never got to tell me as a teenager, a young adult, an adult, heck, even a six year old how much he loved me, though I got my fill as a five year old. I got choked up. My father left the book for me in the same place he left the aviators.

I shared this with my friend Bill, a sympathizer on many accounts. Dead parents for one. Sensitivity to spirit, two. Sense of humor and theatricality, three. I recounted my epiphany but remained baffled, “why on earth at Bed Bath and Beyond? What could that mean?” He said “Easy. It’s from the BEYOND” Laugh laugh laugh. He’s right, of course. It makes perfect sense. The pieces all fit. The brown shades rest on the brown book on my opaque pale aqua glass coffee table. It’s like having my dad’s pipe out.

So I will conclude with one more short story, though there are myriad more, there’s lots of time to tell all those stories, and I will. A friend called me this afternoon. He is an actor. A playwright. A producer. And an attorney trained at Yale Law. He said “I thought you’d appreciate this story…I’m due to have a medical procedure next week and in order to have it I have to stop one of my meds…I already forgot once and had to reschedule the procedure. Well, I was about to take all my meds, including the one I’m not supposed to, the pills were in the palm of my hand, and the one I'm not supposed to take popped out of my hand and onto the floor of the bathroom.” “Like a mexican jumping bean?” I asked. “Yes.” He said. “What do you think?”

He knew what I thought which is why he called me. He knew I would confirm what he already knew, which was that something “abby-normal” happened. His daughter figured it was his dead mother. I said “who the hell knows who the hell it was. If it was your mother she obviously isn’t ready to hang out with you yet. But it was someone. Fun!”

So, if you feel an unexplained breeze on your cheek, a cold spot in the room, you unexpectedly think of someone or something that has some resonance when something synchronistic happens, remember, the veil between the worlds is thinner than you think, and it’s getting thinner daily. Love never dies. The means of communication changes and we acclimate to those subtleties, like getting used to an iPhone after using Dixie cups attached with string. But it can be done. And if you’re open to those gifts from spirit? Well, let’s just say, there are lots of Teddy Bears waiting to be found. © 2011

What a Real Man Does

2011-12-05T18:04:00.000-08:00

I watched the documentary “Buck” recently. http://buckthefilm.com/. As a horse lover and fan of redemption stories, the movie hit on both counts. Buck Brannaman is a gentle giant. I don’t know if he’s tall, but he’s my definition of a real man: strong, skilled, humble, focused, and gentle. Buck is a horse whisperer, some would say “the” horse whisperer, however Buck credits Ray Hunt and Tom Dorrance, the men he learned from. Confident people never take all the credit.

This story is particularly resonant now because it lies in stark contrast to the debacle currently plaguing Penn State. There was a spirited conversation at my home recently between good friends A) a hilarious and opinionated theatre person, and B) an assistant District Attorney in New York. The discussion was about whether a particular individual implicated in the Penn State case was guilty for having witnessed one of the rapes and reported it only to the school authorities and not to the police. According to school policy, the witness followed proper protocol (thereby protecting the school’s “good image” but not the child) My theatre friend felt that nothing criminal had been done since the witness, a school employee, did all he was required to do by his employer. My ADA friend, who prosecutes sex crimes, was in vehement opposition.

I said nothing (much) but agreed with my lawyer pal. There’s the law, and then there’s “that other law”. The Higher Law that comes from a Higher Authority. Not from Above. Not from Hebrew National. From Within. Now I know, I’m treading terrain that some would consider a slippery slope. This is a subject that is subject to…subjectivity. However, some things obviously merit piping up about. Like a stabbing murder outside one's low second floor window (hail to Kitty Genovese, murdered 1964). Like witnessing a child being sodomized. We all know about the blue wall of silence protecting the police and unspoken rules, codes and threats to protect groups or individuals so that they don’t get in trouble. But what of those that they hurt?

Who saw “Internal Affairs”, 1990, directed by Mike Figgis, starring Richard Gere, Andy Garcia and Laurie Metcalf. It’s an amazing flick about police corruption, epitomized by Richard Gere (“Dennis PECK” hardy har har). William Baldwin, his accomplice, gets mortally trapped in Gere’s web of evil. There’s an extremely chilling moment when Gere is perpetrating some obscenity, smiling about it, and shushing his sideman, Baldwin, with a simple finger to his mouth. Smiling, shushing, simultaneously. Or am I confusing this scene with Christopher Walken and Sean Penn in “At Close Range”, 1986? Yes, I think I am, Oh, well. I’m not editing. “Internal Affairs” deserves the plug for the superior thriller and morality tale that it is.

Far from being the end of the world, 2012 is a time of revelation, a time for radical authenticity and claiming our sovereignty. People are risking their lives the world over to “Fight the Power” (go Public Enemy) to liberate their lives, their voices and their countries. It is the quiet voice and the simple act that carries as much weight as the mightiest revolutions. In fact, it is those voices and acts that start and sustain revolutions. The revolution I refer to here is one of healing and of love.

When Buck Brannaman was a little boy, he and his older brother Smokey were professional cowboy ropers. They were on the pro circuit when they were 3 and 6 years old, respectively. They executed rope tricks, blind-folded. They were damn good, and they appeared in a Kellogg’s Sugar Pops commercial around 1970, shown in the film (I remember seeing it as a kid). Buck and his brother were the youngest members of the Rodeo Cowboy Association (RCA).

But their dirty little secret was that their dad was a violent drunk. A violent man. Their mother did her best to protect them, but it wasn’t possible in full, or at all times. They cringed when they knew Mama was out working as a waitress and they were condemned to an evening alone with their dad, who was merciless in his meanness. Stories like this often go from bad to worse. Their mama got cancer and died when Buck was 11. The plot thickened. The abuse intensified.

One night dad got the two boys settled at the kitchen table and started in on the yelling that led to the beating. As he closed in on them Buck made a decision that would change his life. He ran out the door. Knowing full well he might be beaten to death when his dad caught him, he couldn’t be complicit in yet another beating by just sitting there waiting for it. He ran into the dark and their yard and found protection and solace (though no warmth) on that freezing night by hiding in the old oil drum that housed their beloved bloodhound, also freezing, in a tiny bit of hay. When Buck came out in the morning and his dad saw him, instead of beating him to death Pa acted like nothing had happened. Buck’s life changed that day. Without speaking, he said “no.”

One day at school the football couch told young Buck to get in the showers with everyone else. He refused. Coach Claverly rode him hard despite the boy’s resistance. When he finally got Buck in there he saw the flesh torn from neck to ankles on the back of the boy’s body. Claverly stood there and said simply, “Nah. We’ll have none of that.” And then he took action. Nothing in the school’s books told him what to do. This was back in 1970 before child protection laws were in place. He didn’t go to the school principal. He went to the Sheriff.

In the middle of the night Deputy Sheriff Johnny France entered the Brannaman residence. He scooped those boys up and as he did he said, “Your dad will never beat you again. I’ll make sure of that.” I’m sorry he didn’t take the poor frozen bloodhound, too.

“We’ll have none of that.” “Your dad will never beat you again. I’ll make sure of that.”

Simple words and few.

Do they move you? They move me. Because that is the Voice of God. That is the Voice of the Divine speaking through her ambassadors, Holy Coach Bob Claverly, and Sacred Assistant Deputy Sheriff Johnny France. Men of God. Not because of the church they went to, I have no idea about their religious faith. But because that’s what a Real Man whose heart and mind work together in concert does. That’s what we are capable of, being Human and Divine simultaneously. We are all children of God. How many of us claim our lineage?

Coach Claverly and Sheriff France saw clearly and, more importantly, acted decisively. Contrast that with the bumbling nonsense going on at Penn State today. However many years the Brannaman abuse had been going on, it was resolved within 18 hours when two men, one from scholastic sports, one of the law, took action. The power of Good spoke through its ambassadors, whose eyes, ears, hearts and minds were open. Like Angels, these men made good on their promise to the boys.

Buckshot and Smokey were placed with Forrest and Betsy Shirley, a couple who raised 23 foster boys over the years. More ambassadors. More angels. I told you this was a redemption story.

Betsy Shirley said “They were two frightened little boys but it wasn’t too long before they turned into Shirleys…When our kids were little it was like a zoo here, every man for himself and survival of the fittest. My motto that’s stood me in good stand is ‘Blessed are the flexible for they shall not get bent out of shape.’”

Buck was terrified of men when he arrived at the Shirleys. New dad Forrest walked up to Buck. “He was 6’4” and looked like he was made of rawhide and barbed wire.” (are all cowboys poets?) He shook Buck’s hand. Then he went back to his truck. Buck had no idea what he’d be bringing back, a whip, a shotgun? Forrest Shirley huddled in the cab. He returned with a brand new pair of buckskin gloves and handed them to Buck. “You’re going to need these.” Shirley started Buck on the farm’s fence repair work right then and there. Buck said “I was like a skittish colt, petrified. He understood I just needed something to do.”

Buck counsels his own clients now (he runs horse clinics all over the country) “Do you discipline and discourage or do you discipline and encourage? There’s a big difference between being firm, and being hard.” With the force of his wisdom and his love, Buck works silent equine miracles in minutes.

Buck Brannaman and the horsemen he learned from knew the value of gentleness. Having experienced its opposite, and unlike others, he broke the chain of abuse. Buck, his mentors Ray Hunt, Tom Dorrance, Forrest Shirley, Coach Claverly and Sheriff France are men who knew the power of tenderness, the strength in compassion, the beauty of discipline without disdain. These are real Gentlemen. These are real Men.

Buck is now married and has a lovely teenaged daughter with silky golden hair to below her bottom that looks like nothing so much as a horse’s tail. She’s a powerful horsewoman, a natural, her father’s daughter. Yes, this is a story of love and of healing. © 2011

"The Law of Bananas"

2011-11-27T16:24:00.000-08:00

You know about the Law of Attraction. Even though the premise is thousands of years old and as simple as “like attracts like”, “The Secret” DVD dramatized the idea so vividly that many, myself included, were newly invigorated by the concept. But just how Jesus-like are you in your ability to manifest loaves, fishes, husbands or raises? In our “I want it yesterday” culture, what signs can we look for that indicate that we are, at the very least, on the right track in learning how to manifest our desires?

As nice as it would be to manifest via blinking like Barbara Eden in “I Dream of Jeannie” or twitching your mouth like Samantha in “Bewitched”, there are many factors that go into whether or not you can manifest effectively. Do you have conflicting beliefs about your ability to be happy and fulfilled? Are you skeptical about this whole “law of attraction” thing? What mental and emotional operating systems are you running on and do your beliefs support your wants? If you really want to be rich but don’t have confidence in your ability to manage money, you’ll be dead in the water. Conflicting beliefs cancel out and you will lose confidence in your ability to manifest. But fear not. Explore with me a little longer…

Maybe you’re not meant to have a million or even 20 extra bucks this week. There is a soul’s purpose and a part of us (the invisible, wiser part) that knows what’s best for us, just like a parent knows not to let a toddler eat a tub of ice cream despite his screaming. We have lessons to learn in this life. Soul contracts were signed before birth, establishing the agenda for our soul’s trajectory. Sometimes it’s a tough curriculum. At this time of the ascension most of us are cleaning house big time. But if you take care of business, consistently prioritize your happiness and well-being, cleave to what brings you joy and move away from what does not, magic starts to happen. God is Joy and the happier we are, the closer we become to our true selves, Children of Love and Light. “The Law of Bananas” is simple proof of this. As ye sow, so shall ye reap. So start planting jellybeans and lollipops and leave the sour pickles for lunch, not your precious Garden of Dreams.

Take stock of your life. Decide who and what enhances your sparkle. Who or what does not? Get rid of the downers! Seek out the supporters! Watch what happens when you eschew people who question your dreams or your right to happiness (these are inevitably unhappy people themselves, so don’t take it personally, they’re just talking to themselves) Love supports and inflates, it does not tear down and deflate. Many people have a sick and twisted concept of love. It’s up to us to redefine it. Make it work for us. Make sure you are your own best, indefatigable pillar of support. If you need to buy cheerleading pompoms, buy them.

Around Christmas last year I decided to splurge on luxurious soap. I got a whole box of it. No, two. And those soaps came with free soaps since I bought so much soap. I was steeped in soap. I gave some of it away as gifts. And what did people give me for Christmas? Soap. Lots of it. There was liquid soap, boxed soap, and a boxed/basketed soap set. There were bubbles coming out of my ears.

I bought soap and I got more soap, “like coals to Newcastle” as the saying goes. The Law of Attraction is the secular version of “The Lord helps those who help themselves” or rather, “The Lord Lathers Those who Lather Themselves”. I became a Soap Magnet.

I’ve been on a modest budget for a while now. One could pinpoint the loss of the job and health insurance, the subsistence “living” from unemployment (now long gone). Oh right, there’s a recession! There were some new non-negotiables for me as I tried to navigate my future. I applied one aspect of the Law of Attraction: figure out how to feel good. Feeling good attracts good things. This is a simple and profound truth. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew what I was not going to do, clerical jobs that were soul killing to me. Whatever you’re willing to put up with is exactly what you’ll get. I wasn’t willing to put up with a corporate job again.

I became a fierce advocate of my own happiness. The trick was not falling into the abyss of “OHMYGODWHATAMIGOINGTODO” or “What will become of me? What if I lose my home, money, mind, youth, and sense?” Yes, this is a skill. Not going down the path of dark “what ifs”, instead choosing to imagine “What if my life is about to be amazing?! Better than ever! Happier than ever! Better than I could hope or expect?!” Why aren’t THOSE the “what if’s” we ponder? Mark Twain said “I’ve worried about a lot of things in my life. Most of which never happened.”

I’ve had many temp jobs over the years being an artistic type, and regular paychecks being a useful thing, many “get by” jobs have turned into “can’t live without” jobs (I get excited when I can buy things). But then the reality sets in. I’m an indentured servant to a position I find abhorrent. A wage slave trapped in golden handcuffs. Though with that pay scale, probably chrome.

My last temp job was in a very tense environment (an ogre boss was to blame). It paid better than many offices in an attempt to retain employees longer than the average 12 minutes new folk lasted. There was a lot of waste in this office and a lot of fresh fruit left over Friday afternoons and I took it. I gave it to the bus driver, people on the street, and my neighbor. I even accosted a postal worker with a banana at rush hour. I pointed the fruit toward his abdomen and blurted, “Want a banana?” Profoundly confused, he declined, and scurried away. My colleagues laughed. Nervously.

When I lost this job it was a relief and petrifying all at once. How would I survive? Where would I get my fruit? I heeded Joseph Campbell’s call to passion and “followed my bliss”. Which meant maintaining my distance from misery. There would be no more hateful jobs.

That night a friend described the success of her writing project. I went into a tailspin. I tried to be happy for her but was unable to despite my attempts at being supportive and mature. I was jealous. “Why her, not me?” “Am I doomed to failure?” Unable to answer that question I did something that didn’t warrant debate or introspection. I bought some bananas. I went nuts. I bought five.

I did not sleep that night. I listened to every goddamn calming meditation CD I own, real peaceful shit. Usually works for me. Not now. I had a panic attack, a term I use loosely since it wasn’t a clinical one. A clinical one is what my ogre boss had when I sassed him back one day and he ended up in the ER that night. I had responded to his torrent of venom so calmly and succinctly that he was speechless until he fired me.

I arose exhausted from my night of tossing and turning. I was convinced that I would never earn a living at anything creative, that I’m loser, also, that I would die single. Feeling destitute and desperate, I did the only thing a person with no self-esteem could do. I contemplated a clerical job. I’m not knocking it for anyone else, but for me, at that time, it was tantamount to defeat.

Going to the interview felt like the long march toward the executioner. A homeless guy on the subway made eyes at me as I stared ahead hopelessly, stuffed in my suit. Not the sign from god I was looking for.

I was prepared to sell myself out for massive amounts of cash, but it turned out the going rate wasn’t much at all, and for that, I don’t sell my soul. I’m a high-priced call girl! But the joke was this agency knew the ogre on my resume. They had been the agency sending new employees over every 12 minutes when the ogre tossed them out the window. She was amazed I had lasted a year. She told me if I ever wanted to work for 35 cents an hour to give her a call. I grabbed my stay of execution and ran with it.

My wait for the bus home was long and cold. A chatty grandma chewed my ear off about how much she loved my neon orange purse. It was really a briefcase, weighed a ton, cost a fortune, and held no more than a sheet of paper, but its color was jaunty proof that I was creative, not “normal”. She told me about the grandchildren who lived with her and her purse collection at length. Where was the bus?

An old lady hunched over a shopping cart stopped and said “Anybody want some bananas? The fruit guy had extra and I have too many.” Since I was well-banana’d back home I figured someone else would take her up on her offer, perhaps grandma with the hungry grandkids? No one responded. “I’ll take them.” I said. She handed me 3 bananas. While I sat there freezing, I ate one.

Then it hit me. The Law of Bananas. Now I had eight! (well, seven) It was utterly fantastic. Screw the job, screw anxiety and fear of failure, I was blessed and this was proof. The universe was giving me cheerful, yellow signs to coordinate with my orange bag that everything was okay, that I didn’t have to worry, because... well, just because. “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin.” (of course they don’t spin, everybody knows that!)

Then I remembered all the fruit I’d given away while working for the ogre, the mailman I’d frightened with my surprise banana assault, the neighbor I’d lavished with grapes, the security men in ogre’s office building who liked pears and oranges, respectively, and the bus driver who took the apples. This was also the law of karma, was it not? She who gives fruit gets fruit? She who has soap and fruit acquires more of same.

I looked at my life with renewed appreciation, at the freedom I’d created. So I was on a budget. I was free.

The next day while out walking I picked something up off the ground. It was a small toy from the 1970’s, a plastic Snoopy poised, paw raised, over a typewriter. (“It was a dark and stormy night…”) I love Snoopy. It was a sign. From God, the Universe, my Higher Self. I don’t care what you call it. Destiny was involved. It was confirmation that I am a writer.

Magic unfurled after Snoopy appeared. An editor friend told me to write every day even if I didn’t have any obvious trauma to whine about. Another amazing friend suggested I take a writing class and offered to pay for it. One thing led to another and the good vibes began to snowball. I began to see myself differently, as a person who could do what she wanted, and didn’t have to do what she didn’t want to do.

Not long after I met with a pal and her boyfriend. We talked about life and work, and I said that passion and magic were my guiding principles these days. He countered with rational motifs but I’d have none of it. I shouted “Passion! Break out of the box! BREAK OUT!” I leapt up to leave. As I put on my coat he offered me a banana.

I stood, stunned. He wondered what he’d done wrong. I screamed “It’s a miracle!” and hugged him. I said, “It’s a miracle!” as I jumped up and down like Rumpelstilskin. “It’s The Law of Bananas!” I took the banana, proof of the Universe’s Perfection, Benevolence and Sense of Humor and Banana-ness.

I bounded out onto the street. I put on my iPod shuffle and what song came on? “Breakout” by Swing Out Sister. That is synchronicity, my friends. It is being right with yourself, the world and your soul’s purpose. I did a little jig on the street as I ate the banana. If I’d had a hat I’d have tossed it up in the air. When you prioritize joy, magic happens. And that is how you know you are on the right track! © 2011

fuck the post

2011-11-19T11:57:00.000-08:00

I’m not into crowds. I don’t like parades. I don’t like protests, although I’ve been to a few animal activist events. The most I’m willing to do is hold up a sign, I don’t like the discord that yelling engenders. Most screaming people are vitriolic, and so are the passersby who shout back. God forbid you’re wearing leather while protesting the sale of fur (as I have. I am neither vegan nor vegetarian) I’m one of the people who sees a big difference between leather and fur, though I don’t doubt there are hideous abuses within the leather industry as well. There are abuses within the dairy industry, as well. (which is why we should all endeavor to buy organic and humane certified, a step in the right direction toward the humane treatment of animals). While I await the day when all animals are treated humanely, at least cows get eaten. Foxes do not. For an animal to be anally electrocuted and skinned alive after a life of incarceration and despair for someone’s vanity, there’s nothing civilized I can say about that. It’s time man stop thinking only of him/herself and her immediate needs and wants. There’s a bigger picture for all of us. Eating fast and cheap food and when you’re poor seems like the only option, but when obesity, diabetes and heart disease set in, it’s obvious the fat, salt, grease, sugar and white flour were not a real solution. We all need to move toward healthier, greener lifestyles. We are only as strong as our weakest link.

I protested the sale of fur in front of JCrew on Fifth Avenue. It was evening. A fashionable young man exited the store. “Valerie?” he said. “James?” I answered, somewhat sheepishly. A lovely fashion designer from England, I knew him from my days working for JCrew corporate, downtown. We had a totally pleasant exchange ignoring the fact that I was protesting his company. We pretended I was holding a sandwich, not a sandwich board. I’m happy to announce that JCrew subsequently gave up its usage of fur. If you live in Alaska and you eat the seal, please, wear seal fur. If you live on Fifth Avenue and you think it’s cute, a status symbol, in addition to being warm, I’ll reserve my vitriolic comment.

For vegan absolutists, I say there is a difference between eating an organic egg from a happy chicken and consuming foie gras, a product that is premised on the misery of an animal forcibly engorged with extra calories so some fat cat can feast on this product of torture. Like fatty meat? Put some butter and cream on your sautéed liver, buddy. We all deserve a good death (here’s to Dr. Jack Kevorkian). Most animals in food production are treated egregiously. I believe that revolution is necessary, but that change, ultimately, is incremental with some quantum leaps along the way. Perhaps we will all be vegan someday. Until then, do the best you can, and ensure that the best keeps getting better, for you and the lives of the animals, workers and land that produce your meals.

For those that wish to agitate for change, more power to them. Radical times require radical efforts. I’m all for the animal liberation front, whose “by any means necessary” (with no harm ever to human or animal life) approach is a-okay by me. They’ve destroyed property. Boo hoo. The companies affected torture animals. The infiltrated buildings are concentration camps. The victims are rescued. There’s nothing like a daring man saving a tender bunny to turn me on.

No one gives a rat’s ass about what happens to rats’ asses in labs, all so we can wear mascara and drink tea (seriously, Nestea is testing on mice). If humans were subjected to a fraction of what we do to God’s “other creatures” (the “other” white meat) we would be screaming like the guy in Munch’s painting. If we had the air or means to scream, which most of those animals don’t given the tubes they’re shoved in, unable to move, ever. It’s unconscionable. This world will be saved and balanced by the feminine love of compassion. It’s the Seventh Wave.

So, back to protest and the Post. The New York Post. I don’t buy it. I don’t read any paper or magazine except the metaphysical monthly “Sedona Journal of Emergence”. My dog pees on the Times retrieved from the recycling room in my apartment building, or “The Library” as my senior neighbor Shirley calls it. We share what we find with each other. “People” magazine is the top prize. Couldn’t pay me to buy it, but it's a cheap thrill from the trash.

I never liked the newspaper because it’s dirty. It sullies the hands and the mind with distraction, ads and bad news. We read about the destruction of the environment in a paper that contributes to it. Where’s the value in so much minutiae? To quote Harvard biologist E.O. Wilson, we’ve got too much information and not enough wisdom. I’d rather be a happy New Yorker than a savvy one. Save a tree. Get your info on the net.

After a beautiful walk in Central Park this morning with my ebullient pooch, I trudged up my ten flights to boost the workout. Did any of you see “No Impact Man”? Great documentary by a New Yorker, Colin Beavan, who decides to say goodbye (incrementally) to most standard living practices to reduce his carbon footprint. He enlists his wife and their unwitting two-year-old daughter. They eschew even public transportation and walk or use their scooters. Eventually they phase out electric usage in their home, hooking up a solar panel to the roof of their apartment building so dad can juice up his computer. I mention this because they lived on the 11^th or 12^th floor, and after giving up their gym membership, lost 20 pounds each within 2 weeks just by walking upstairs.

While on my building’s concrete “stairmaster” (I’m on the tenth floor) I hit upon Wednesday’s Post in the “library” (the stairs are adjacent to the trash rooms). The cover touted the ousting of protesters in Zuccotti Park at 1 in the morning last week. Andrea Peyser’s piece, "Sanity prevails – but Loons just don’t get it” bemoaned the filth of the park and referenced the “scum” living there and making it unsanitary. I’m guessing she’s conservative.

I value the rabble-rouser. I like WikiLeaks, Julian Assange, Bradley Manning, Valerie Plame, Michael Moore, Tim DeChristopher, Roseanne Barr, Anita Hill, Norma Rae (I don't care if she's fictional, she's undoubtedly based on someone) Sojourner Truth, Harriet Tubman, Karen Silkwood, Susan B. Anthony, “The Blind Side” Mom and anyone who busts an unfair status quo by taking action. Passive whiners be damned. Change isn’t neat and clean.

The Post insults the protesters’ tattoos, piercings, personal hygiene and the state they left the park in. I think it’s abhorrent that 55,000 people die daily on this planet due to starvation or starvation related illness and that many people don’t have clean water or sanitation at ALL, let alone fancy public parks that cater to the wealthy. This country gets up in arms when three thousand of their people die in a surprise attack on a September morning, but most are indifferent to the tens of thousands elsewhere dropping like flies every day because they’re indigenous, indigent, riff raff, beggars, workers, savages, pagans, muslims, or third world. Not our people. Not our problem. We have enough on our mind.

“As above, so below” also means “as over there, so over here.” What we do and think affects everybody. You may not see that from an egocentric perspective, but when you open your heart and activate your spiritual vision you will see the filth that lurks beneath the surface of the “cleanest” and most “upstanding” of our citizens. Dazzled by shiny objects, we are distracted from the truth. Not all that glitters is gold.

Peyser calls the protesters “scum”. I’ll tell you who the real scum are. The executives of Exxon, Chevron and BP trying to cover their asses, protect their fortunes and their futures, with no concern whatsoever about the devastation caused by their avarice. The villains are the men that caused the "Savings and Loan" crisis and the good people (yes, most of them men) of Enron, Halliburton and Monsanto. People who toe the line only because they have to, not because they give a shit about the water or dead birds or dolphins or other peoples’ livelihoods being killed. The smelly dope head in Zuccotti Park is a lot cleaner than those guys, let me tell you. It’s not only the body that reeks.

Don’t like Occupy Wall Street? I'm not crazy about this recession. I don’t like that banks were given 700 billion (or eleven trillion as I heard, when all was said and done) to enable big bonuses coupled with crooked performance during an economy still in the toilet. I don't like that farms and homes were lost while the one percent feasted on the flesh of the near dead. I don’t like that New York City streets are filled with more and more homeless people, young and old, including Dean, one of my locals, who has no feet and sleeps in his socks and a shawl in a wheelchair under the scaffolding of my local FBI. Something is not working. Wealth is not the problem. Callousness is.

“I wish the protesters were more well spoken” I heard someone say. I haven’t interviewed any of them. I’m sure there are a couple of dope addled doozies down there, whether protesters or hangers on. Heck, we had an addled dope in the White House last round of Bush, and what about that Dan Quayle fellow? Why should I care there are a couple of weirdos in Zuccotti Park? Keep them out of my White House.

There was a great sign downtown: “I Don’t Mind You Being Rich. I Mind You Buying My Government.” Yes! Yes to abundance! You don’t have to stomp a police boot on peoples’ heads to achieve your goal. When my joy upholds your joy, then we’ve got something.

Peyser bemoaned the foul smelling riff raff. The people in Ecuador aren’t crazy about having no drinking water and the fact that they’re dying of cancer because of petroleum toxins left by Chevron, which they refuse to clean up despite a court injunction. Chevron owes BILLIONS in reparations to the people of Ecuador (as yet unpaid) but even that doesn’t help the babies, sons, daughters, mothers and husbands who’ve died already due to Chevron’s brutishness (see documentary “Crude”. Kudos to Trudie Styler and Sting for putting their money where their mouths are and helping The Rainforest and Her Peoples).

When Tommy Fox, encamped at Zuccotti for 52 days, said he’d been organizing the donation of apartments to protesters so they could sleep inside, Peyser phrased it “for protesters who didn’t care to sleep outside” as if they preferred two lumps of sugar in their Wedgwood teacup. “Makes him sound like a member of the dreaded one percent of richest Americans”. Please, Peyser. Like Koch, Trump and Bloomberg are hosting anyone on their gilded couches unless they're getting blown by them. Helping protesters find shelter is not the behavior of the one percent. The problem with the one percent is that they help only themselves to the detriment of others. Yes, I am generalizing, there are some amazing wealthy and super wealthy folk who do care and who do help.

Is Occupy Wall Street a perfect protest? Of course not, and so what? Even the American Revolution was disorganized at times. A couple of assholes fought Hitler. We don’t question the battle itself. But make no mistake, good people. This is a war. This is a battle for Planet Earth; her integrity, her honor, her ability to exist unfettered without being stripped, raped, pillaged and poisoned. This is a battle for human rights, a call for liberté, égalité, fraternité. This is a time for action.

Until we look beyond our mortal frame and see the world as an extension of ourselves, our child as an extension of ourselves, our cat as our feline self, our environment as the mineral, plant, aqueous version of ourselves, we are doomed to failure. It is our smallness of mind that has hobbled our world. The sidewalk is mine. That is why I do not litter. The subway is mine. That is why I don’t leave food, crumbs, or sticky things on the floor or seats. The air is mine. That is why I do not pollute. The animals are all mine, that is why I endeavor to buy humanely certified animal products, and eat more fruits and vegetables to minimize reliance on animal products.

How we conduct our lives on a daily basis has a profound effect on everything around us. Angry people poison the air. I’m not saying if you have a beef not to take care of it. But those who walk around angry all the time solve nothing. They create energetic and physical pollution in the body, home and workplace.

One of the best pieces of spiritual advice I ever got was from Peter Sonnenberg, the trance channel for Orkie:

Breathe.

Go Slow.

Be Gentle

I add to that: be gentle, first and foremost with yourself. We cannot give to others what we do not have.

Love yourself. Real, true love. Accept your foibles. Smile at them instead of cursing them. Embrace your inconsistencies; give yourself credit for how hard you try. Let go. Choose to love yourself warts and all, kit and kaboodle. It is not selfish. It is the most selfless thing you can do. Fill your heart with who you are, Love Incarnate. Give yourself the gift of being at peace and feeling good. Breathe. Go slow. Be gentle.

As we become more patient with ourselves we become more loving toward the world. We begin within then radiate outward. As we do so we become more understanding of imperfect revolutions, imperfect people, even the one percent, all while advocating for change. You do not have to be angry to seek change. You just have to take action. OM. PEACE. WEAREALLONE. © 2011

“BATMAN AND JOSE”

2011-11-14T13:07:00.000-08:00

It was Friday, 11/11/11. For those in the know about ascension energies, this was a portal opening. As was 10/10/10 and 9/9/9 and 8/8/8. Up next: 12/12/12. The energies of spirit are ramping UP. We are being prepared for changes on this planet, and we can go quietly, or kicking and screaming. Either way, there is no going back to the dark ages we are emerging from. We’re leaving misery, survival and striving behind. Happy days are on the horizon, but first, there is some tidying up to do.

Mother Earth is stretching, creaking and adjusting her pantyhose as temperatures and water levels rise. (waterfront property: not such a smart investment anymore) The magnetic field of this planet is waning, portending a potential pole shift and an upcoming (but not imminent, Ice Age). Dictators are dying. Markets are withering. Walls, both symbolic and literal, are coming down. With the spiritual light growing by the day, what was hidden under a rock is now scrambling, but there’s no cover anymore. (Check out Patricia Cori’s channeled book “No More Secrets, No More Lies”)

Pedophilia, whether sanctioned by the Vatican or the American Church of Organized Sports, is finally being dealt with. This a time of reckoning; judgment day. Not the end of the World, but the end of the world as we know it. A thousand years of peace is on its way, as promised.

We The People are claiming our God Given Power Back. We’re crying out, tightening our belts and going to battle to reclaim our government, our lives and our planet. It is an exciting time, isn't it? Is it scary? Sure! As with any war, this is how we find out what we’re made of. Recall what John Wayne said about fear: “Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway.”

So put down the Starbucks and do something. Sign a petition. Hug your child. Meditate. Claim your Sovereignty as a Son or Daughter of God. We’re not guaranteed anything in this world except breath, death and taxes. The rest is up to us. We are still a wealthy, wasteful and unappreciative culture. All the shit coming to the surface needs to be flushed. We are doing it. We are weathering this storm. We are finding each other in the process.

A foursome gathered at my home on Friday 11/11/11. It was a friend’s birthday, and I cooked. This is a friend who has not been traditionally comfortable with his own birthday, concerns about aging, I suppose, where he is in life, and what he has to show for himself. I have these concerns too, or had, as they are waning. Somewhat.

My spiritual studies lead me to believe that I have nothing to prove to anyone to validate my right to exist and, drum roll please, to be happy. I don’t need a family or a job to claim my happiness. Happiness is a state of mind that I create all by myself. This is the secret to life; to not look to the “things” we want to be the source of our comfort, but our choice of mindset. We all know the kid just dying for a toy who bores of it minutes later (shout out to Milo in “The Phantom Tollbooth” by Norton Juster, one of my favorite books, now celebrating its 50^th anniversary). Our highs are fleeting. Then we want more “things”. Hence our landfill and debt problems.

Even marriage or a job is a thing. It’s what we do with that thing that determines our enjoyment level. Our attitude and perspective comes directly from our choice of thoughts and beliefs. That we control. The weather, not so much.

On this particular day I cooked up a storm and cleaned up a storm in preparation for my company. I was donating a loveseat to the birthday boy in anticipation of the arrival of my new one, and my cousin offered to transport this upholstered mound in her van-like car. She figured if we couldn’t fit it in, we could throw it on the roof. My other two friends are strong, so this was the ideal time to feed, fete, and hoist.

I removed the cat and dog hair off my couch as best I could and apologized that the underside of the couch had been shredded by my cat Wilbur, now dead. I artfully taped up the bottom with white duct tape and huge sheets of white cardboard.

My cousin arrived after 7pm so that she could park legally on my street. She said “There were parking cones everywhere except in front of your house. I parked right in front.” “Perfect!” I said. One by one, all 3 of my guests rolled in, one from work, one from a movie, one from Long Island. We had some laughs, including a joke by the birthday boy about an oversized superhero hurling deadly sparks generated from between his fat thighs.

We enjoyed bottles of wine and I gave my cousin her combined Christmas and birthday present early, since I don’t see her regularly.

Time rolled by and I suggested we start moving furniture since it was 11pm, I had an early morning, and they had a long haul ahead of them getting the loveseat to Queens. Two powerful guys and two capable women took the feet off the piece, removed the pillows, and started shimmying the piece around the corner into the hallway. It wouldn’t go past the door. We were stymied. Well, how’d I get it in? It’d been many years since its arrival but I remembered the delivery guys taking the door off. I ran to get hammer and screwdriver and quickly knocked out the pins from the hinges, hoping neighbors wouldn’t be too upset since the pounding was over in seconds. Door off. Loveseat through. Hurdle one.

Out hallway, down elevator, onto dolly cart (random aside: sounds like D’Oyly Carte Opera Company, I just LOVE Gilbert and Sullivan) down through basement, up ramp to street. My cousin and I went to the car to prepare it. She got a ticket. “Oh, no.” Everything had been going so well. She is not, however, a complainer, so that was that.

The loveseat did not fit in her car. It now had a small tear from the move. It was freezing outside. None of us were wearing coats. The guys shoved it in the car somehow, its padded ass hanging out in the air. They strapped it in and down with twine, knotted by a gay guy who’d never been a boy scout, but by golly, that loveseat was getting to Queens. There was talk of her getting another ticket. I said “Lightning doesn’t strike twice.” and then an MBO, a “most benevolent outcome” prayer (thank you, Tom T. Moore and The Gentle Way) for them “to get there safely and easily with no interference, and may the results be better than they could hope or expect”. We were exhausted and shell shocked from the late hour, the cold and the heavy lifting. They drove off.

Turns out the cones had been put up because a film was shooting the next day. The signs, which my cousin hadn’t noticed, said “CARS LEFT AFTER 10PM WILL BE TOWED.” It was 11:45pm when they shipped out. She was lucky to get a ticket. The next day I asked my doorman what film was being shot. He is a delightful older man from Puerto Rico, always jovial, almost giddy at times, he’s worked in my building for decades and I love him. A jubilant human being, you’d never think he’d worked a day in his life. Jose, happy and energized most of the time is proof that you can be happy no matter what. Jose is grateful for his job, and the second home he has in Puerto Rico. He seems to relish life. A young fellow down the street, Declan, is also a doorman and hates his job with a passion. He blames the job for his misery, and claims that no other job is any better.

Jose told me they were shooting “Batman”. I said “Who’s in it?” He said “Me!” I stopped and thought about it. “Batman and Jose?” We laughed.

The birthday boy loves his new loveseat, more to the point, his cats love it. The excavating that Wilbur so deviously effected was thoroughly appreciated by several felines who are now living permanently inside the piece, sort of like the mole people in subway tunnels. I am still apologizing to Wilbur for getting so mad at him.

My cousin isn’t stressing about the ticket, she’s just thrilled with the handbag I got her. I am grateful they all got home in one piece, including the loveseat, with no further incident, tickets or tears.

We’ve had ups and downs as friends and cousins, but the convergence by the four of us on 11/11/11 was as remarkable as the day itself, a portent of the beauty of the day’s portal opening for greater spiritual energy and upliftment. There have been months and years when various combinations within this foursome were not talking to each other. But here we were, older, together, and putting our wisdom into practice by “being there”. ©2011

Rock…Paper…Scissors…

2011-11-06T18:08:00.000-08:00

I took a seminar with an Irish Guru who shall remain nameless. When I first saw a photo of him in a book I was mesmerized by his loving gaze, I couldn’t believe the energy that seemed to jump off the page from his gorgeous face. Later in that same book there was a photo of this guru’s guru, an Indian dude, decidedly ungorgeous but also with the most searing gaze, with love seemingly popping off the page and into my pores. What was going on?

I was intrigued with this Irish character but turned off when I attended an event of his in the city. His acolytes were weird. Unfriendly. And the music was loud. The meditations corny. Irish Dude wasn’t there but there were photos of him and his recently deceased wife on the makeshift altar in one of the gorgeous rooms at the now defunct (big sigh of sadness) East West Bookstore Yoga Studios. To study with him in Ireland for a week cost three grand at the time. Wasn’t gonna happen. For $20 downtown I was willing to check him out.

I was totally turned off this evening of prayer, meditation and social weirdness until, at the end, they played a tape of 'himself' ohm-ing in a lyrical, angelic voice. It calmed me down from all the irritation that had been building up. Then they played Indian Dude ohm-ing. It too, calmed me down. What was it about the gaze and voice of this man and his teacher?

I was betwixt and between in my assessment of this character. Didn’t like the groupies, but was intrigued with his motif (a symbol he “created”). Liked his voice and pretty visage. Didn’t like the altar with said visage. (I’m not into people or icon worship; false idols all). Months later, a three-hour seminar with the guru in question was offered in New York for $75. Since he was being imported, and I didn’t have to fly to Ireland, this seemed a steal. I invited others. A few came. Quite a few, actually, and the event itself was packed. Mostly women, I might add. I wasn’t the only one to notice his pretty face and to be entranced by his gaze, mystique and “aura”.

I sat in the front row, excited to bask in his energy. As was every other gal, also aware of his beloved wife’s recent death. He entered the room to applause. He was shorter than I’d imagined and was wearing an iridescent silk violet Nehru style tunic. I expected to fall in love/lust/admiration any second and…didn't. I continued to feel nothing as he proceeded to talk, rant, cajole, joke, curse, and…scream. This man left me utterly cold. The more he talked the more turned off I became. Angry, even. I couldn’t put a finger on it, but I didn’t like him. He was full of himself. He insulted Reiki healing (several of my friends there were reiki healers, even reiki masters) He told them the only healing was his “whatever-whatever” technique. I don’t take kindly to anyone telling me it’s his way or the highway. How could he of all people, a guru, an alleged “avatar” not honor other modalities of healing? It’s like disrespecting someone’s religion. I continued to take it all in, arms crossed over my chest, eyebrow raised. No one else seemed irritated.

I ignored the envelope his people left on each chair, inviting us to donate money to his cause. He told us a dollar was fine, even nothing was fine. But if we had money and we didn't donate it, well, this would create bad karma for us. He talked about his wife’s passing, and said that she only departed when he “released her” by touching her crown chakra. This sick woman would have lasted, what, another 100 years if he hadn’t given her the send-off? Talk about an inflated ego.

He referenced the Tibetan Book of the Dead and the Bardos (the liminal zones we pass through after death) and gave us each a postcard with a Tibetan mandala, a Thangka, printed on it. He’s not even a Buddhist; I guess he felt the need for a visual aid and a global reference. “Do you want to hear what it sounds like when you die?” he asked rhetorically. Who’s gonna say no? I didn’t even know death had a sound. He got close to the microphone and gave a prolonged scream at the top of his lungs “AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!” Not so pleasant. Good to know the tension eases up when we cross over…Thanks, Guru!

Now that he had aurally traumatized us, he promised to give us individual healings at the end, to open our 6^th chakra (the third eye). Just like he let his wife out of the can, he’d release our psychic abilities, or boost them, or suppress them, what did we know? He was a psychic can opener. As much as my discomfort during his seminar was growing, I was still curious as all get-out to see what he’d do, what would happen to me if he “did his thing”. Why? A man who had baffled me from the get go, intrigued then repulsed me, why was I still clinging? Did I want my $75 worth? Yes! Was I curious to experience the fireworks display at the end? Yes! Was he charismatic? Yes! Vexing. Yes yes! I waited and waited. As the afternoon wore on his rantings became more offensive, pompous. And boring.

He changed shirts at intermission, emerging in an iridescent silk cobalt blue Nehru style tunic. Was this a rock concert? He wasn’t sweating. It was a gratuitous costume change. It was coming to the end of his 3 hour time allotment and he hadn’t even started the healings or openings or pokings. My discomfort grew, the dis-ease in my stomach (my gut, my intuition) mounting until I said “enough’s enough” and I did what no one else did that day. I walked out. There were hundreds of people in the room, a big old conference room in the lower level of some massive hotel in the theatre district of Manhattan. I looked around as I left. Everyone was immobile, gazing at the master. His son, whom he had insulted, if I recall, as having no real skills, no school learning, a drop out, but under papa’s brilliant tutelage was now becoming a master carpenter (or something to this effect) stood there in support (or stupefaction) of the man in blue.

I remained angry for days, befuddled for weeks. I inquired of friends who stayed, not wanting to color their report, simply asking, “what happened? What did you think of him?” The five-hour event elicited no particular responses. “I guess it was good.” “It was interesting.” “What happened?” “I don’t know, but we were really quiet afterwards and didn’t talk all the way home.” said one young couple. Sounds like he shut off their throat chakra instead of opening their brow chakra. I said “did you like him?” “Yeah.” “Did you learn anything?” “I don’t know…”

I asked my reiki master friend “What did you think?” “It was nice.” “You weren’t offended by his putting reiki down?” “No, I didn’t let it bother me.” “Are you going to study his healing modality with one of “his people”. “I don’t think so.” No one had anything concrete to say, either pro or con; all were non-committal. One bought some paraphernalia, including a necklace with his “symbol” and the accordion fold-up (for “E-Z” travel!) icon screen with pictures of Jesus, Buddha, Mother Theresa, Irish Dude, Indian Dude and a few other peers, I don’t remember exactly who, The Hulk? Superman?

I was not at rest for weeks afterwards because I didn’t understand then what exactly was so disturbing to me. I hadn’t drunk the kool-aid, but I had been misted with it. I couldn’t say definitively that this guy was awful; all I knew is that I was upset. No one had anything definitive to say about (I mean against) this guy, including me. All I knew was that I felt ucky.

I queried two medium friends, both of whom I’d invited, neither of whom wasted their $75. One of them, an older gal who saw his photo and said “ooh, does he have a brother?” responded to my question “Do you pick up anything about him psychically?” She said “I just knew I wasn’t missing anything.” Okay. The other one took her time getting around to answering me (busy gal) but when she did she blew me away. She knew nothing consciously about him.

She was in the front seat of a car as four of us trundled off to a psychic development circle in Connecticut (home of the afore-mentioned medium). She closed her eyes. “Rasputin.” “Oh, God.” I said. That was it. He was a Rasputin. She spoke as the words, thoughts and images came to her: “Charismatic.” “Money. (I’ll say) Money problems. Problems with the IRS (can’t be far off after money problems) Mesmerizing. Took tender loving care of someone, someone who was sick…” ”Yes” I said, “his wife died” “Younger women…younger women (yes, repeated) “Joanna” (not the name she said), lovers with him before his wife died. He has a shady past (he did refer to himself in the third person during the seminar and said that ‘this lad of 15 years (himself) stole money from the church box in Ireland’, an interesting confession to make to a large group of his followers paying him money). She continued, “A shady past, not murderous, but shady. His spiritual resume is padded. Why am I seeing California?” Me: “Cause he’d be perfect there.” New York ain’t the only town that likes a good-looking guru with nice shirts. She said, “Why am I hearing baseball?” Me: “I have no fricking idea.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is an A #1 psychic reading. Can I prove any of that stuff? I don’t need to. It confirmed my digestive discomfort, and quelled my niggling unease. My intuitive barometer, the one where the mercury kept rising and rising and rising as I observed the proceedings, was dead on….

The Buck Stops Here

2011-10-30T18:07:00.000-07:00

The Buck Stops Here

What would it be like to live in a world of total transparency? To know that when you buy corn, it is natural, not genetically modified? To know that when a mass-produced cereal claims to be made with honey, that it’s not a commercial version of “honey” purchased at 19 cents a pound from China diluted with sugar syrup? (see “The Vanishing of the Bees” http://www.vanishingbees.com/) That when a politician says he will do something he actually does it? Radical.

A person’s word used to mean something; deals were made on handshakes. Integrity means “of one”. When your word matches your deed, you have integrity. Now, if someone says “I’m going to kill you” and they do it, they have integrity, just no morals (I’m playing with you!) Don Miguel Ruiz affirms in “The Four Agreements” always be impeccable with your word. Our word means so much.

Don’t listen to what people say, watch what they do. Until people’s words match their deeds what they do is who they are. “I really wanted to come…” “I meant to do it…” “Let’s have lunch!” “I’ll call you.” Unless people follow up on these empty words, often said to appease, to lubricate the social cogs, they are liars. Most folks won’t want to hear that. And while I’m at it, what does the word “try” mean? “I’ll try to come.” It means they won’t come. So, “I’ll try” is a white lie. If you’re really unsure, why not say “I doubt I’ll make it, but thanks for the invitation.” It’s clean.

In attempts to cover their asses people fib, fudge and fabricate. Has anyone taken responsibility for the financial malfeasance that has wreaked havoc on our country and the world’s economy? Have you heard a one of them say “I fucked up.”? Ah, no….Because in their mind, they didn’t fuck up. They got rich via others’ ruination. Since they’re narcissists they don’t care about those people “out there” ( I mean “down there”, actually, I mean “what people?”) They’re not remorseful beyond the fact that now they’re in trouble. Most of them still have no clue how the other half, I’m sorry, the other 99%, lives.

Which leads me to the Madoffs, and for those who like word play and symbolism as I do, look at their name, they MADE OFF with the money! I was amused by the recent pieces about them in the media due to Ruth’s “60 Minutes” interview tonight. Ruth says they tried (there’s that word again) to kill themselves because their guilt and the hatred from others was too much. Well, they didn’t try hard enough, did they? “I don’t know whose idea it was (you don’t?) but we decided to kill ourselves because it was so horrendous what was happening.”

What was happening, Ruth? What was “happening” was the result of what you made happen, you brats! You bilked people of billions of dollars and the hatred directed toward you both was the direct result of your actions. Simple cause and effect. The Madoff’s attitude seems to be “What did we do? We weren’t trying to hurt anybody” I don’t believe they were trying to hurt anybody, anymore than our 1% power brokers are trying to hurt people. They just don’t give a shit. Being sociopathic narcissists, all they care about is that they get theirs (and everybody else’s).

The Madoffs don’t feel guilty about what they did. They had no guilt while they were getting away with it, did they? Were there sleep issues? Skin breakouts? Indigestion? I haven’t heard of any. No, the guilt came only because they got caught. They feel bad because they are in trouble, and the hatred, disdain and disgust from others is galling to them because they had a childish need to be loved, admired and looked up to. As if wealth is something to be proud of. I am all for abundance if it is honestly earned, but having cash in and of itself is not a noble quality anymore than having a full head of hair is.

Bernie and Ruth were upset by the “terrible phone calls, hate mail, just beyond anything…” How could their victims be so mean? The Madoffs felt they couldn’t go on anymore, whilst their victims were forced to, sans their fortunes. Their attempt to kill themselves on Christmas Eve made it all the more depressing she said. Boo hoo. They couldn’t enjoy their egg nog or Christmas prezzies. No concern or remorse at all for what they put their victims through. Now, that would be guilt. The Madoffs just feel sorry for themselves, that’s all. They haven’t repented. No moral light bulb has gone off in their heads or hearts. The fact that they mailed their valuable jewelry to family members before their suicide attempt, and not to lawyers to distribute to their victims shows their lack of remorse or desire to make reparations.

The Madoffs act as if they have nothing to do with the whole scenario, like they are victims instead of the perpetrators. They act put upon, don’t they? Just because they’re narcissists doesn’t mean they’re not self-hating. Narcissism has nothing to do with the healthy self-love that I advocate. These were never happy, healthy, loving people. They were operating from the lowest common denominator of human behavior: lust, greed and avarice in the guise of wealth, power and “success”. We are in the process of redefining those terms as a culture now. What is wealth and success if it comes at the expense of others’ lives, livelihoods, freedoms and happiness?

What if everyone told the truth? What if you spoke your mind and heart without fear of repercussions? What if corporations and governments did the same? Can you feel the lightness in that?

Starr Fuentes, a Polish Mexican witch with a raucous sense of humor says, “When you lie, your aura dims.” Not everybody can see auras, but some people can. Animals can. Most people walk around with a dark cloud around ‘em like Pig Pen from Peanuts. This goes for white lies too. Why do we have such an aversion to speaking the truth? Oh probably being burned at the stake in past lives, or dying to defend the truth for a noble cause. And the fact that 90% of our culture is predicated on lies and deceit and that we think it’s normal and okay to cheat on everything from our taxes to our spouses. Of course the fact that our government lies and cheats doesn’t help anything, does it? Where does the buck stop?

I would like to trust my government. Right now, I don’t, but it’s getting better because WE THE PEOPLE are claiming our voice, power and authority once more. We’ve learned that trusting and expecting Big Brother to take care of us is disempowering and puerile. We are fighting back to reclaim our planet, our resources, and our autonomy.

We don’t yet live in a world where everyone is accepted for who they are but we change that by accepting ourselves for who we are, now. We advocate for ourselves by standing in our light and our truth. Imagine being fully known for who you are. No more secrets. No more lies.

For those in the know about chakras, our lower three are being phased out during this ascension process; they’ll be a vestigial tail before long. Survival as an m.o. is on the outs, we’re leaving fight or flight in the dust. Love will be our new baseline as we start to THRIVE. http://thrivemovement.com/ The heart chakra will be the new root. Above the heart a truth chakra is evolving. It is turquoise, the blend between the green of the heart and the blue of the throat. When you are living fully in your truth your truth chakra will activate and you will not be able to lie. And you will know when anyone is lying.

I was coaching someone and asked her about something she’d agreed to do. She paused, then said calmly and coolly “It didn’t happen.” I paused. “Was it supposed to happen by itself? Or were you supposed to do it? How about claiming responsibility for what didn’t happen. That sentence would look like “I didn’t do it”. I said, “I’m not mad, but I believe it’s really important to take responsibility for what you do and don’t do, and to speak the truth. Go on, say it.” She looked at me warily and said, “I didn’t do it.” “Great! It’s the truth!” I smiled and hugged her. She didn’t do it because she didn’t want to, plain and simple.

We always do what we want to do. A lot of people take issue with that concept, insisting there are many things we don’t want to do but have to. Even if you do something you “don’t” want to do, you decided that it was better for you to do it than to not do it, and that is your assessment of what is best for you. You want what is best for yourself so you choose to do it (the thing you “didn’t want to do”). Your wanting may be of a different nature when avoiding pain than it is when eating cake, but it still comes from desire. The desire to take care of yourself.

We are all doing the best we can all the time. Chew on that. No one sets out to fuck up. And even if we do, it’s because we believe there’s some benefit to “fucking up”. “Now I can prove I’m a nothing and Mom and Dad will leave me alone!” To fix that little scenario we have to move on to a discussion about beliefs, but that is another essay. Did Bernie and Ruth set out to hurt people and cause their own ruination? Absolutely not. Do I think what they did was okay? Of course not. And that’s why karma and the law exists. To set boundaries for those who don’t respectfully set them themselves, to curtail those behaviors that are malignant toward others.

How’s this for another definition of integrity, that our choices not only benefit the individual, but the society and planet which supports our very being? What if our corporations and governments operated the same way, cooperating not competing? What if we created a Whole World Pot Luck Dinner, bringing our gifts to the table, and benefiting from the beauty and magnificence of this great and varied spread? Symbiosis. Living together, benefiting each other, helping each other. Being helped, loved and supported in return. Feeling safe. Visualize that. The buck stops here. Where we go, is up to you. © 2011

Finding Gardens

2011-10-25T19:59:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine called me the other afternoon. “Oh, this is nice. This is really nice. I can’t believe I’ve never seen this before.” “Where are you?” I answered. “Central Park, 105th Street and Fifth Ave.” “Oooh” I said. “The Conservatory Garden, isn’t it just gorgeous? Don’t you love the flowers?” “There aren’t any flowers here. It’s October.” I said, “Don’t you love the statues, and the fountains?” She replied, “There aren’t any statues or fountains.” “Yes there are, look around.” She walked a bit then gasped, “Ooh, oh, look at that.” I asked, “What do you see?” “There are flowers. Wait, there’s a statue, and a fountain! Oh my god. I’m in heaven”. She became Alice in Wonderland.

For those of you who’ve not been to the Conservatory Garden in New York City it's like being transported to France whilst being yards away from the M1 bus and The Barrio Museum. But as you step deeper and deeper into this sacred space, Versailles comes very much into view. It is a formal garden, the kind kings and queens and the very very rich have. And it is there, right by the The Barrio Museum and the bus.

My friend’s life is in stark contrast to this garden. She is a single mom. Her husband ditched her and their kid when the child was 5. No child support (what we lovingly refer to as “a deadbeat dad”) He moved to Florida with his hoochie mama and gave her a big fat diamond ring. The one he never gave his wife of 13 years.

She’s been working for the City of New York since she was 18 years old. It is many decades later now. She manages 3 housing projects in Harlem. She is the director of 2,000 apartments, a responsibility to be very proud of but there is no glory associated with it. There is drama, dirt, vermin, stress from the bureaucracy, deadbeats, whiners, trash, more trash, lack of staff, lack of money, people who do nothing and things that never get done. And let’s not forget the cops and the dead bodies and the occasional fire or two. She cares too much about her tenants and her staff, and she does too much for her family, friends, and co-workers. Her feet hurt. Her head hurts. Her back hurts. Her heart could be in better shape. I want Calgon to take her away.

My fantasy for her, this big hearted friend who gives her last dollar away regularly, who is generous with her food, her time, her ear, her love, my fantasy for this friend is that she will find a man someday who will take care of her. Considering that no one has taken good care of her since early youth, that she was a latchkey kid, that she’s always supported herself, and often supported her men, this is not a sexist, passive conceit. She’s a workhorse and commutes four hours a day to and from Manhattan and Long Island. She gives and gives and gives. I want her to receive. But I can’t stop her from picking the men she’s picked, like the one who tried to kill her, and the other one (or two) who just hit her.

The last fellow she dated seemed a decent sort, though I never met him. He was so similar to her their names, ages and marital status (single, one teenaged kid) were almost identical. They both worked for the city. They probably made around the same amount of money. But he slunk away after five months or so. My friend was thrown because she was starting to trust him and had developed beliefs that he was a decent man. She claimed she was upset by the text that ended it all, but she wasn’t upset. First of all, she wasn’t in love with him. I think she liked him because he seemed to like her. That’s not the same thing as actually liking someone. It’s trying to second-guess a situation. When you pick someone for rational reasons it usually blows up in your face. The reason you should pick someone is because you like them. Well, heck, you decide the reasons you want to be with someone. Some people like partners because they are dangerous. Unhinged. Unbalanced. When Carrie Fisher says in “Postcards from the Edge” she likes interesting men, “interesting” means “problems”.

My friend broke up a million and one times with the guy who tried to kill her. One of those fucked up situations where the adrenaline and addiction to drama was so strong that she was literally a junkie for this man, swearing she was over him again and again then reaching out to him the next day. Or caving to him when he beseeched her. I was dizzy from hearing about all the back and forth. “I’m over it! I saw him…. I hate him! I saw him….” It was a merry go round on speed. It took years for her to finally sever the ties. For real.

So this latest fellow, the one who seemed nice but was ultimately disappointing, and her sadness and surprise when he pulled back, this was nothing. She called it depression but she wasn’t strung out. He wasn’t a lunatic, and she wasn’t his shrieking vampirette. She was okay. She was more than okay. So she gained a couple of pounds.

After listening to her for years with loser after loser, she finally hit a sort of parity with this last one. A parity within herself. A pleasant but unremarkable relationship ended quietly. She did not fall apart. And so, on a fine October day in New York City, she wanders down south from Harlem at lunch and finds herself, magically, in The Secret Garden of Central Park.

“There’s a butterfly! It’s coming near me! It almost landed on me!” She is like a child. She is exploring new territory in this series of gardens that reflect Italian, English and French styles within the conservatory. “I’m in Heaven.” Yes, she is. That garden has been there for decades but she didn’t find it until today.

A few days later, she went to my chiropractor for the first time. I’d implored her for years to try this gentle healer, a man who understands the holistic nature of our well being. Dr. William Zev Roizer is a miracle worker and a kind, generous and talented man, (http://spinalfreedom.com/home.htm) My friend’s body was in such pain, such stress from her job and her 88-year-old mother getting in a car accident that she could barely walk. Desperation drove her to the doc. Whatever it took, I was grateful she was there.

Her mom is out of the hospital and in rehab. And who’s in the rehab center but a very cute doctor. Nothing wrong with the blue-collar types my friend used to be attracted to (actually, there was everything wrong with the specific guys she was involved with) but would it hurt to like a doctor? A guy who actually takes care of people?

I keep dreaming about her Mr. Right, her Prince Charming. I don’t believe everyone deserves one. I believe she deserves one. And she’s starting to believe she deserves one. We don’t get what we deserve. We get what we think we deserve. Whatever we’re willing to put up with is exactly what we get.

She’s starting to see herself with new eyes. She’s starting to feel herself in new ways. She’s happier than she’s ever been. She’s losing weight. She told her nutritionist to go screw herself (not really, but she stopped going when this woman continued to insist that she exercise at LEAST an hour daily and eat no more than 1000 calories a day. Leave the torture to the middle ages, right?) She didn’t drop a pound under this expert “supervision”.

When we are miserable we create more misery. Now that she is pulling herself out of her mental and emotional muck she is stepping into new terrain. Terrain where people smile at her, like her, treat her right and give her things. She just won the cash prize in a raffle last week, $283 bucks. What can I say? Happiness heals. She is finding gardens because she is growing them. ©2011

Bees Wax

2011-10-19T21:45:00.000-07:00

New York magazine recently had a cover story on older moms entitled “Is She Just Too Old For This?” I’m pretty sure they superimposed an older, white haired female head on a younger, pregnant, female body, producing a shot akin to Demi Moore’s shocking Vanity Fair cover crossed with something from AARP. Actually, on second look I see that it is an older-ish body too with a firm, protruding very pregnant belly superimposed in the middle. I’m pretty sure the cover model, who looks 60 plus not the 50 they talk about in the article, was knocked up by Photoshop.

The article is about the ethics of choosing to be an older parent. Can we talk about the ethics of parenting, period? Is it selfish to want a child, whether biological or adopted, knowing that “the clock is ticking” and that you may not be there to see them graduate, wed, breed, etc? Isn’t all parenting selfish? Let’s look at the motivations: How many people have a baby to “save” their marriage? (we know how well that one works) How many young women have a baby to keep or entrap a man? How many teenaged girls have babies so they will have someone who loves them (yes, this is the rationale for many, as if the child is a puppy) How many men want children to prove their virility or because it’s expected of them by their parents, family or friends?

How about dead-beat dads who abandon their kids? How about men who want their women pregnant and cooking? They’re not proving their masculinity for the child’s sake. What’s their motivation for breeding? To pass on a name, a business, a tradition? To create “immortality” for their DNA, followers for their religion? Is that proper motivation? How about women who leave their babies in dumpsters or men who beat or kill their wives and babies. They’re better than the older couple with security?

Why was the Octomom allowed to breed, with her atrocious breeding record? And who’s paying for those kids? I betcha the state of California is footing most of the bill, one way or another. Why did people look to “Jon and Kate and Their 8” as admirable in any way? Was there any parenting going on, or was it just corralling?

To quote Bill Maher about these multiple births “Humans were not meant to be born in litters.” I’m with Bill. Octuplets are the new DD fake breasts, the Hummers of childbirth. Where did simplicity go? We’re so greedy. Buy more, breed more, do what you want, it’s a free country. But not when it comes to older moms. We judge her to be selfish, pretending to be something she’s not. Young.

A good friend of mine is a midwife. She counseled a fifteen year old to terminate her early pregnancy because, well, being a mom at 15 just didn’t seem like a great idea. Her very Catholic grandma was with the girl at the clinic. My friend gave her a prescription for abortion pills. Months later the same girl came in again with her grandmother for a prenatal checkup. My friend asked her why she didn’t take the pills. The girl said “I couldn’t afford the $26 for the prescription.” Of course! And having a baby for 18 years will be SO much cheaper…Is this child a better candidate for motherhood than some older broad who really wants one and can provide?

What of teenage couples who think they can handle parenthood while attending (or dropping out of) high school. What about single moms by choice? I’ve heard them described as totally selfish, depriving their kid of a dad.

I know of worse situations.

I know kids whose dads were present but were not fathers. They were neither nurturing nor loving. Some of them were sexually abusive. My high school friend’s divorced dad was dating an 18 year old when we were both 17. This was discomfiting at a minimum. I know kids whose parents were nasty, abusive, alcoholic, drug-addicted, porn-addicted, workaholics. I know a dad who couldn’t pay the rent and who hit up his 4^th grader for cigarette money. She didn’t sleep nights because she figured they’d be on the streets soon. He left the family and started another one out in Colorado. There are kids whose parents are busy saving the world but ignore their families. Kids whose parents care more about causes or business than actual people, and certainly more than their kids. I know kids of young parents who got sick then died, or just plain died. The nerve of them.

And what of people who use their kids as accessories like Brittney Spears used to tote her toy chihuahua around? To quote Bill Maher again, what does a photo of a smiling politician and his wife and kids prove? “Oh, good, his dick works.” It doesn’t mean he’s a good dad or a good person or that they’re a happy or even functional family. I wonder if Maria Shriver regrets having grinned in photos with Arnold for so long. Now there’s a selfless husband and father. Charles Dickens’ wisdom about life has been supplanted in our culture by Toys R’ Us superficiality.

Something about a 50 plus woman having a baby just doesn’t look right, does it? We like our women young. Our mothers young. Our sex objects young, and if not young, then LOOKING young. It’s all about appearances. It’s hard not to reduce this issue to pure sexism and ageism. Men sire children into their 80s. No one much cares so long as they leave some cash behind along with their sperm. It puts me in the mind of the fantastic film “Harold and Maude” when military man Uncle Victor chastises young Harold for sleeping with octogenarian Maude:

“You have a very common neurosis, particularly in this society, whereby the male child subconsciously wishes to sleep with his mother. Of course, what puzzles me, Harold, is that you want to sleep with your grandmother. I would be remiss in my duty if I did not tell you that the idea of...intercourse...and the fact of your firm, young... body...co-mingling...with her...withered flesh...sagging...breasts...and...flabby...buttocks...makes me want...to vomit.”

My parents were in their forties when I was born. I was a “surprise”. They had my sister in their 30s and wanted more kids, but none came until my last minute appearance. So I was wanted, but unexpected. People act like it’s strange or shocking to have a child in their 40s or 50s. It is not. They used to be called “change of life” babies. Even peri-menopausal women can conceive naturally. If women and men want to play around with science regarding their fertility, which I personally wouldn’t, it’s their choice. I don’t want plastic surgery, either. Frankly, I’m not big on doctors, period. I go for vitamins, herbs and acupuncture.

The documentary “So Much, So Fast” is a most beautiful film about family solidarity and love. Of the 3 sons, one of them contracts ALS (Lou Gehrig’s disease) in his 20s, I’m guessing. A good looking guy, he gets sick, falls in love and gets married, and asks his wife to have his baby. Stephen’s disease is progressing throughout. They figure he has about five years to live, average for sufferers of the disease. Their baby Alex is the light of his life. They try to have a second kid, even as Stephen’s disease continues to incapacitate him with ever increasing speed. Was that selfish? I believe little Alex is a very lucky boy. He was born to two parents who adored each other, and who adored him. He is part of an extended family that nurtured Stephen, his wife, and his kid. This is one big, loving family. How many kids get that beautiful a start in life? I’m putting my money on little Alex Heywood.

Stephen Heywood was 38 when he died. Randy Pausch was 48. Steve Jobs was 56.

We come with no guarantees in life, though everyone feels entitled to fame, health, wealth, success, big houses, big families. We want it all in this country. We don’t get it all and, as comedian Steven Wright said, “You can’t have it all. Where would you put it?” We are not ensured long life. We are not guaranteed happiness, though in this country we were once promised the ability to pursue it among many other rights that have since been stripped by the Bush regime.

We cling to life because we are afraid of death. We cling to science as a defense against decay. Women die in childbirth. Fathers die. Kids are born sick. We act as if the template for everyone is perfect health and long life. It is not. So if you want older gals to neither conceive, use a surrogate, or adopt, then tell young gals who are ill-equipped to parent (and are more likely to abuse, abandon or kill their spawn) they can’t have babies either. Tell dads they’re not allowed to split and not support their kids. Tell moms they’re not allowed to be depressed, angry or conflicted.

I’ve always said if a kid has one loving and reliable adult in their life, they are lucky. It might be a parent. It could be a grandparent. A school teacher. A neighbor. It could be a dog, cat or hamster.