My magic cloak

Nothing makes me happier than when my mind does a 180 degree turn. When I can sincerely open my mind to a new perspective, it reminds me to re-examine my assumptions about all kinds of things. Like many people, it's easy for me to settle into my grid of values, to become so at home in one point of view that I begin to believe alternatives to what I believe must be wrong. I settle into my assumptions that then congeal around me, slowly becoming as hard as concrete. Before you know it, I've decided my point of view is correct. At that point, my grid of values begins to rust and corrode. Barnacles begin to develop. I'm locked down and rusted shut, and may I say I'm not the only person to whom this happens.

Many problems arise from the idea that there is some kind of objective reality that exists external to our ever nimble minds and hearts, a reality we somehow have accessed while many others remain clueless. That idea, that there's ONE way - to live, to worship, to create, to love - and that those who don't believe in the same way are wrong, well, that idea has caused problems for our species all the way back to our beginnings.

What's true? There are many truths. When my mind opens - for whatever reason - I am liberated. It shakes things up, creates some mental chaos (nothing new for me) and the necessity of examining core beliefs closely, even if I'm sure about them. The rust drops away, the barnacles vanish. Sometimes after a shake up, there are huge holes left in the grid of my beliefs. Depending on how much my mind shifted, a lot of restructuring becomes necessary. I must restring the warp and woof of my opinions with new strands of thought. It can take awhile to figure out how to integrate the new bits with the old grid. Do you know what I'm talking about?

I have changed my opinion of my invisibility, after a lifetime of being huffy about it. How can I blame the individuals who fail to remember me? This has happened everywhere I've lived, through most of my life. It can't be their fault! It has to be something I'm doing. Right? How is it I've never looked at this before?

Today what I'm thinking is, how cool that I can cloak myself in invisibility. Invisibility is one of my shamanic powers. Cool!

I have never consciously worked with this power. I've been too busy getting miffed because people didn't remember me. Forehead slap. Who knows what I can do with this talent once I actually practice? I'm experimenting with it now, remembering experiences in which it has come in handy. It's interesting to think about.

I really should have been a spy! Except I'm not brave enough. Same goes for being a detective. What else can a person do with the power to be invisible and easily forgettable? I'm thinking about it.

I should have been a spy

There's a thing about me I don't understand. Actually there are many more than this particular one, my lifelong invisibility. Maybe a better way to say it is that people don't recognize or remember me when we meet a second, third, fourth or even fifth time. An encounter with me does not stick in people's memories. I have a friend in San Francisco who had to be introduced to me every time we met. It went on for years and even became a joke. That was an extreme case of something I experience often. I don't get it. I think I'm rather vivid.

Also should mention that this isn't a recent development. It isn't a case of how old ladies become invisible. No. Even when I was juicy as hell, with purple eggplant hennaed hair and super red lipstick and a young body, even then, when I ran into people I'd seen several times and remembered well, I had to reintroduce myself because they couldn't place me.

So weird!

I ran into a couple of people I haven't seen in awhile at a funeral a couple of weeks ago. One of them introduced himself as if we'd never met, another kind of recognized me but couldn't figure out why. At the cemetery the other day I saw my massage therapist's husband, someone I often see on my way out after a session. We say hello and talk for a second about the weather or whatever. But at the cemetery, though he was friendly, he seemed astounded I knew his name and I could see him trying to put me into context. On the way home I ran into somebody I see at a mutual friend's parties. We always have a great conversation. She didn't know me.

It's embarrassing and awkward to reintroduce myself. It is humbling but not in a good way. I used to help people by reminding them of the circumstances under which we met. These days, I just let 'em squirm. Is that wrong?

In my dream last night, the Nazis were coming to a house where I was, along with many other people. One of the dream people suggested I hide. The rest of the dream I went from place to place, trying to decide where I could best be hidden. Stand behind a door? They might close the door and see. Hide under the bed? That's so cliche! Of course they would look. I went from room to room on the second floor, then climbed the grand staircase to the third floor where I at last decided to hide behind the coats in a large walk-in closet. There were shoes and boots beneath the coats. I figured they wouldn't see my legs. I hid behind a grey trench coat and pair of tall wellies.

It was a beautiful house. The closet was full of beautiful clothes. If not for the Nazis, it would have been a very nice dream.

When I heard the Nazis breaking down the front door of the house, I woke up frightened. But I didn't stay scared long. Maybe I'm invisible because I'm still - even in the golden years of this lifetime - hiding from the Nazis. Because if so, that would explain my perpetual invisibility.

After this helpful dream what I'm thinking is maybe being invisible is not something I should take personally. What I mean is maybe I shouldn't blame the people who don't remember me. My invisibility is an adaptive behavior developed long ago in this life or before this life. It's not their fault!

Would I want to suddenly be very visible? Maybe not! It's interesting to think about.

Red shirt, coral shorts, big hat, lots of lipstick, taking pics in a car bumper. If I ran into this woman, I would remember her. Wouldn't you?

Eco Goats!

If you doubt for a second that Capitol Hill - I mean my neighborhood, NOT Congress - is wonderful, then get a load of this. Congressional Cemetery, a beautiful place for so many reasons, decided to bring in a herd of 60 goats to clear the underbrush on the periphery, close to the Anacostia River. Someone there today said they paid a pretty penny to use the goats, as opposed to the hideous machinery that would normally be used, which would cost half that amount. I salute them!

Here's a link to the Washington Post story about it. Flock of goats? Who wrote that headline?

It was a big story on the news, a barometric reading that indicates just how inert DC is in August. Nothing is happening. Nothing. Hence a story about eco goats gets top billing. What is not to love about that? No news is good news!

As much as I enjoy it, I don't go to the cemetery often because it's not good for me to spend too much time with the dead. A little while is great and respectful, but too much time is not healthy.

The goats brought a ribald life force to the perimeter of the space. There were people and kids there, and a lot of reporters. It was rather fun.

Even so, as I walked away from the cemetery, I took special care to brush the dead away. As usual they were hanging on, grasping my ankles and wrists, wishing to be dragged along. To what end? Oh those dead. I shook my arms and legs, brushed out my energy. I raked through my hair, using my fingers like a comb.

Something about my energy is attractive to ghosts.

When I think back to the days, not that many years ago, when I spent much of my time with the dead, I feel sad. The spirits that stick around after death are either here to provide guidance to the living, or are lost or wandering, and very clingy.

It's the clingy dead I was brushing out of my energy field today. My sense has always been that they think I can help them in some way. I tried. Even after many years of ritual on Civil War battlefields and in cemeteries, I'm not clear I helped even a small increment of the lost and wandering ghosts. The work was grueling and unhealthy. After those rituals, food tasted moldy, I felt weary for days, even weeks after the magic. My dreams were insane. What was I doing?

These days, I wish the dead well. I remind them that any time they want, they can go into the light. Their ancestors are waiting to help them. Ah, but the clingy, wandering dead are like stoners. They can not get it, that liberation is immediate if they want it. They wander. What's it to me?

Fall is still a twinkle in the eye of the weather gods, but already the dead are more apparent.

I love the dead, but for now, I am alive. I choose life, thank you. I choose life. L'chaim.

The sweet spot

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If DC summers were like this summer, I would never complain. We've had plentiful rain, but also lots of sunshine and dry air. There have been beastly days, but not too many of them. It's kind of a miracle.

As usual, the weather predicts me. My "work" this summer is to enjoy, savor, delight in the great weather. I surely am!

Likewise, I'm trying to remember to appreciate my good health and the fact that my wits are more or less intact, and to marvel at how lucky I am to live in a beautiful apartment on a grand street in a wonderful village. I'm a little unused to this approach since, historically, my life has been overfull of drama. Last summer was a perfect example of the sturm und drang I became accustomed to long ago. Stalkers, mildewed clothing, mild traumas such as visiting the Holocaust Museum and getting a tattoo, and such, are situations I am better acquainted with than lovely, peaceful, healthy environments like this summer. I know that my life's adventures have helped me become wiser, kinder and more compassionate, but facing character building challenges such as last summer's is not fun.

Pema Chodron says that when she mentions neuroses as she's teaching, she'll see heads nodding yes, yes among her students. Everyone knows about being neurotic, and in fact, according to Pema, we practice being neurotic. It's interesting to think about.

When she mentions compassion, she says many of her students become incredulous or look confused. They are not used to practicing compassion, hence it feels inaccessible. They believe they don't really have it in them.

In my work I must practice compassion. The metta prayer is also a part of my daily routine, has been for many years. I agree with Pema and other teachers that it's not as hard as it seems like it should be.

My habit is crisis mode - or maybe I should say that used to be my habit. This summer I am able to practice being calm. I have plenty of energy to extend to my clients. It's not hard to be generous and compassionate because nothing hideous is demanding my energy and attention. It's a great opportunity to practice that which is both harder and easier than I would have imagined. This summer has been graceful.

It could all change tomorrow or even later today. For now, right now, life is good and I am grateful. Shalom.

Life and Death

I had lunch yesterday with a friend and sometimes client who is going to have a baby. I may or may not attend the birth, we're not sure yet, but we're working together to get her ready for the labor and birth, with some massage but also with a lot of talking. I realized yesterday I've accumulated a lot of knowledge about the birthing of babes, even though I never had one myself. I felt rather proud. The experience of attending births and working with pregnant women has yielded some wisdom I can now pass along. It was satisfying and strange.

After that I went to a memorial for one of my clients who died of cancer. Everyone loved Laurie, hence the church where the Hill Havurah meets was jammed with people. People spoke, we sang songs, there were a few tears, but mostly sweet stories about a very pure spirit. One of Laurie's daughters works for an interfaith organization based in Jerusalem where she lived for a couple of years. It was interesting to hear the stories of Laurie's trip to Israel, how eye opening it was for her, how she at last came to understand her daughter's passion for the place.

At lunch, both a bartender I only know slightly, and the person who brought the food, noticed and remarked on my tattoo. They said it was beautiful which is really weird because my tattoo is powerful, it is in your face, but beautiful? It is not beautiful.

Israel/Jerusalem is calling me. OK. But I don't want to go alone. And I also really really really want to go to Paris. And I really really really want to visit my friend in London. I'm getting a travel bug in my bonnet, it seems. Hmmm.

Meanwhile DC is truly SPLENDID. I can't believe it's so nice in August. This is Colorado weather. I love it!

My mind: not unlike Jerusalem

A friend just returned from herding a bunch of 20-something Jewish Americans on a tour to Israel. My friend is not Jewish, Christian or Muslim, but is a very spiritual person. She describes her spirituality by way of an image in her mind's eye: The hand of an old person holding the hand of a baby. That is her religion.

Isn't that awesome?

Also awesome is what she said about Jerusalem, a city she did not enjoy and would not want to re-visit. The wall, in particular, pissed her off. The separation of men and women really bothered her. As a young American woman, this ancient taboo made no sense. Oh we American women are lucky!

But she also saw incredible sights, and had conversations with every kind of resident of that crazy, mixed up, powerful city. She described her melt down at the Dome of The Rock. It was a beautiful desert morning, the Dome was beautiful, Mt. Olive was behind her, stately and powerful. There was trash in the street, children playing, soldiers with machine guns. She said the extremes of beauty and ugliness were all around.

Because it was Ramadan, their Israeli guide said there could be no contact between men and women, not even conversation. When she burst into tears, her boss, a man, came to her and gave her a hug. People began shouting (including the Israeli guide) and the tension increased palpably. It felt like something terrible was about to happen, but - nothing happened. Everyone noticed the hug, no one reacted except for the momentary shouting.

She said she knows it hasn't always been peaceful there, but right now, that day - even when her boss gave her a hug as she sobbed - she could feel the people around them restraining themselves. This includes the Muslims coming to pray, the Jews, the soldiers. I guess the kids probably didn't mind.

What a scene!

She described the atmosphere of Jerusalem as 'an unbearable peace.' I'll be thinking about that for awhile. Jerusalem: like a volcano that tries not to erupt. Oh yeah.

If an opportunity arose, yes I would love to go to Israel. I don't want to go alone and I definitely would not want to tour the whole country. I would go to Haifa or another beach town, spend 2 or 3 days just settling into the landscape and weather. Once I got my footing, I would dip in to Jerusalem for a couple of days at most, after which I would fly directly home to process and integrate the experience.

In terms of every kind of experience, less is more for me. When my ex and I were in Varanasi, I spent some of the time hiding in our hotel room, most of my time on the street with a scarf pulled over my head and face. Yes I walked around veiled. No one seemed to care and it helped me feel more grounded. Oh the energy of Shiva's city! My guess is in terms of intensity, it is in the same category as Jerusalem. I'm grateful to have been there and would not want to return. Once was enough.

An unbearable peace is what I often experience in my head. That's one of the compelling reasons to continue my meditation practice, because in my head, there is no hotel room, and not any ideal way to be veiled. Wine helps veil the unbearable peace, but I try not to let it become a habit, you know. Better to learn to tolerate what's inside my head, yes?

Life is rich beyond belief. So precious to me now that I'm sixty.

Shalom.

Not exactly dog days

Even Dupont Circle is peaceful in August.

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It's August, but ... really? Because it rained and stayed in the lower 80s today, and is supposed to be absolutely gorgeous tomorrow. I can't remember such a gentle summer here. (Hope I didn't just jinx it.)

Except for the usual summer beastliness, August is a wonderful month in DC. The citizens of the District take off for Maine or upstate New York, or they go visit family out west. It's a pressure cooker of a city; hence we must escape, we simply must -- or else. In August, nothing much goes down in DC; it's the perfect time to get the hell out of Dodge.

In August even the tourists seem to disappear for a few weeks. It's easy to visit the museums. The metro isn't jammed with people, the traffic is lighter, the streets clearer and calmer. I welcome August, especially this year.

Last summer I did not get away all summer. But this summer is different. In a couple of weeks I'll spend a weekend with dear ones at their cabin in W. Virginia, gazing at the Potomac River and partaking of their incredible hospitality. Two weeks after that, my ex housemates and I will go up to the finger lakes region of New York to stay in a condo on a lake whose name I still am unable to spell without looking it up. We're staying for five glorious days. There's a deck on the water, and a panoramic view of the lake. The moon will be dark, so if it's clear, there will be stars. Stars! Oh man, do I ever need to see some stars.

Who doesn't?

I look forward to the getaways and in the meantime I'm luxuriating in this gentle summer, I surely am!

Shalom.