The Weirdness Continues
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Pila
I was on a trajectory to a perfectly normal life. I was mostly good, though sometimes a bit naughty. There were times I was full of certainty and promise and other times I was crippled by misgivings and frozen by doubt. Sometimes, I felt myself to be invincible; other times, I felt vulnerable and bare. In other words, I was perfectly normal.
And then the scandal. I was only a peripheral player. There was no reason for me to have been brought into it at all, but the silver ball of fate landed in my number. I was in the right place at the wrong time.
Soon, everyone had an opinion about me, most of them bad. Any why? I’d done nothing so different that many others did before and after me. Except others don’t get caught in such a spectacular way.
After that, my life was never the same. The press hounded me. When that finally abated, many still whispered about me. My name was synonymous with my shame, and I would never be free of the taint.
I tried my best to rise above it; to develop a philosophical attitude. I managed a fair degree of success in no longer caring what the strangers thought or said about me, but I never was able to get over that initial punch in the solar plexus when I’d be recognized in a social setting and the murmur of whispers and surreptitious glances would begin afresh.
I went on with my life. What else could I do? I would not hide. Pourquoi? I was not a criminal! More than one person suggested I change my name. I refused, on principle. None of those who threw hypothetical stones at me were without plenty of sins of their own.
I lived a much smaller life than I had before. My friends and family closed ranks and kept me sheltered from the gossip and petty ill will of others.
Eventually, the public forgot. My transgression was too far in the past for anyone to care about it. There were far more intriguing sinners to star in the morality plays of the self-righteous.
And slowly, I started to live again. But those were decades I would never get back.
I won’t say those years were wasted but it took me a long time to appreciate all I learned from the derailing of my life. I am learning, still.
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Buy the book!
(My annual Yom Kippur post)
A post from me:
Today is Yom Kippur. Although it’s been many decades since I observed the Day of Atonement in any traditional sense, this year I spent all day listening Leonard Cohen, who is, after all, a great rabbi. Actually, I listened to one song in particular again…and again…and again, each time hearing it anew. The song, “Show Me The Place” is from the Old Ideas album. I found myself moved more deeply than any synagogue service or rabbi ever could.
The song addresses the struggle shared by so many of us; of trying to remain “in the light” while dealing with the necessary mundanities of real life – earning a living, having to interact with those who test our ability to forgive, to curb our anger at life’s indignities and injustices.
Most of Leonard Cohen’s work deals with his own quest for peace through love and spirituality; his struggle to overcome the depression, self-loathing, fear, cowardice, shame and sense of unworthiness which have plagued his entire life. His songs have always been filled with imagery of submission and slavery and supplication.
“Oh, take this longing from my tongue; whatever useless things these hands have done.”
–Take This Longing
“I asked my father I said, ‘Father change my name’. The one I’m using now it’s covered up with fear and filth and cowardice and shame.”
–Lover, Lover, Lover.
In the 90s, he spent five years in a Buddhist monastery, where he eventually became an ordained monk. He credits this time of study and the Buddhist philosophy as having helped him greatly to understand his own pain and to ameliorate some of his emotional suffering.
By the late 90s, he was in a good place. Then in his 60s, he had ample income from his music, and was able to devote his time to writing and recording, living a peaceful life of meditation and introspection, writing about the things that moved him without financial worry, insulated from many real world distractions.
In 2004, he discovered that his long-time manager, a trusted family friend, had embezzled millions of dollars, draining even his retirement account. There were lawsuits and counter-suits aplenty. One can imagine his state of mind at this time. Ripped from a life of relative peace, and thrust into nasty legal battles and heavy financial obligations to others. He had to go back on tour; back to working for others, relinquishing his well-deserved freedom. (“There were chains, so I hastened to behave.”) It’s easy to imagine him overcome with very un-Buddhist-like feelings of anger, betrayal, frustration, even hatred which must have been difficult to assuage. He may well have lost the ability to keep his depression at bay.
All those years of living in the light, of letting go of ego, and suddenly, all the lessons feel lost to him. He tries to hold on as best he can, but can only salvage a shred of light – “a particle, a wave.”
In this song of supplication, he is entreating God to tell him where to stand so he can regain the old perspective, so he may once again live in a state of grace.
It is a song of supreme sadness and pain. It put me in a tender, weepy state. Nevertheless, I’ve been listening to it on repeat for two days straight.
For me (and I know many of you readers), it’s a constant struggle to forgive those who need forgiveness most; to open my heart to those who hate or who have hurt me. I work every day to separate the needs of my ego from the path of my higher self. Although I would be most content spending my days in spiritual contemplation, I must work to make a living, often forced to deal with people who fill me with some very UN-spiritual thoughts.
This song is a hymn to that struggle in all of us – to hold on to the Light in the face of darkness; to truly live in the light and not just pay it lip service. I don’t always win that battle, and the losses are always filled with pain.
Show me the place, where you want your slave to go
Show me the place, I’ve forgotten I don’t know
Show me the place where my head is bending low
Show me the place, where you want your slave to go
Show me the place, help me roll away the stone
Show me the place, I can’t move this thing alone
Show me the place where the word became a man
Show me the place where the suffering began
The troubles came I saved what I could save
A shred of light, a particle a wave
But there were chains so I hastened to behave
There were chains so I loved you like a slave
Show me the place, where you want your slave to go
Show me the place, I’ve forgotten I don’t know
Show me the place, where my head is bending low
Show me the place, where you want your slave to go
The troubles came I saved what I could save
A shred of light, a particle a wave
But there were chains so I hastened to behave
There were chains so I loved you like a slave
Show me the place
Show me the place
Show me the place
Show me the place, help me roll away the stone
Show me the place, I can’t move this thing alone
Show me the place where the word became a man
Show me the place where the suffering began
FYI, Leonard has a new album out next week. Click to order.
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Bah! I messed up the scheduling and posted two yesterday. So, there will be a break til next week to put us back on schedule. Sorry!!
In the meanwhile, enjoy the summer. Stay cool! Wear sunscreen and a hat. Clean up after yourself at the beach and in the park. Watch out for sharks and bears and riptides. Enjoy the bounties of your garden, if you have one.
That is all. Carry on.
-Adrienne
Dear Readers,
First, a happy announcement. My husband and I have opened a hypnosis (and he, a massage) practice in Kingston, NY. We will be doing all kinds of hypnosis but of course, my specialty will be Past Life Regression. If you or anyone you know would like to arrange a session, you can contact me via my website, http://www.artofepiphany.com.
Second, a big favor. I would be SOOOO grateful for some positive reviews of my book on Amazon. Since the book is stories from the blog (put it a more logical order so that they flow better philosophically), if you’ve been reading the blog, you can honestly review the book. Positive reviews really help sales, so it would be MOST appreciated!! (Thanks to those of you who’ve already reviewed it.) You can post reviews HERE
Thank you SOOO much!
Agat
I was a disaster at love. My relationships never lasted more than a few years. I fell in love with the notion of love and never saw my partners as they really were. I was interested in others only as long as they allowed me to feel within a narrow spectrum of emotion; as long as they didn’t force me to consider my own responsibility too closely. When my feelings began to stray beyond those parameters, I might become angry or demanding or hurt or fed up.
None of my behavior was consistent with truly loving someone. I was never willing to stick around to do the work.
I thought I was doing the work. I thought I was being the mature, sensible one. I believed that what I wanted was within reason, and within my right to ask. I wanted them to behave in the way which I believed was the correct way to behave. I wanted them to reciprocate my feelings. To feel as I did. Respond as I did. Desire as I did. Love as I did.
I had lofty concepts of love, which, to my great heartbreak, no one else seemed to share.
When they finally would not or could not live by my standards, they would either leave or gradually stop making any effort until I ceased asking; until I abandoned my feelings and went away. This process was not without drama, which was mainly my own doing. It was, ironically, the very drama they’d been trying to avoid. It was the behavior which always proved them right in the end.
I believed myself to be loving yet tragically unlovable when in fact, I was quite lovable but tragically unloving.
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NEW
Dr Brian Weiss, Omega Institute, May 17, 2019
Hey all!
Back from the most wonderful workshop with Dr. Brian Weiss and his lovely wife, Carol — five days at the glorious Omega Institute, learning about Past Life Regression. Dr. Weiss and Carol were so generous with their huge stores of knowledge on the subjects of hypnosis, past life regression, reincarnation, energy work, and more. I am still processing everything I experienced and promise to write more in a few days, but for the moment, I just want to enjoy my happy little bubble of bliss.
For those who don’t know, the Omega Institute for Holistic Studies offers seminars from one day programs to weekend intensives to five day workshops, on a variety of spiritually-related subjects.In addition to the one I just attended, there were classes on meditation, yoga, energy work, mindfulness, Buddhist studies. In fact, I was excited to run into Pema Chödrön on campus yesterday. (She’s teaching this weekend.) As we passed each other on one of the well-tended paths, she looked right at me and gave me a huge smile! I admit to being a bit star-struck! I suppose I shouldn’t have taken her smile toooo personally since at Omega, EVERYBODY smiles! All the time. I don’t think I saw a grumpy expression all week! There is literally nothing to harsh your mellow — even the fact that it was damn cold for May (low 50s!) and raining most every day. People were friendly and supportive and loving.
The grounds were once a summer camp and the familiarity of the setting brought back a lot of happy childhood memories for me. I admit, however,the accommodations are considerably better than the bunks I slept in as a kid. Although the rooms and cottages are spartan, they are fresh and clean (i.e. not covered in decades of chipped paint with spider webs in every corner!) They have been upgraded with modern amenities such as air-conditioning, heat, and handicapped accessible bathrooms. And the grounds are heaven on earth! There are magnificent plantings, flowering trees, and lovingly tended grounds. Meals (mostly vegetarian) are provided in a big, friendly dining hall. (Although I’ll tell you honestly, if I never see another piece of kale in this lifetime, nor hopefully in my next, I’m OK with that.)
Truly, it was like spiritual sleep-away camp for grownups. I met lots of “campers” who return year after year, from far-flung corners of the planet — Australia, Japan, Uganda, Chile, Scandinavia, Italy, the Caribbean, Mexico and of course Canada and the U.S. I feel I have found my people — folks who speak intelligently and knowingly about the same esoteric “woo” subjects which have long fascinated me but may have marked me as “weird” among non-believers. They were spiritual yet grounded, intelligent and serious about the subject matter but funny and willing to laugh at themselves. I think — I hope — I made some friends for life. (Just like camp!)
So, dear readers, please indulge me for a couple more days, and I’ll tell you about a fascinating regression I did on one of my fellow workshop attendees.
But for now….namaste, bitches!!!
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As a small child and well into adulthood, I felt a part of me was missing. It was as if my soul existed both within me and without me, and I had no agency over the part outside myself.
I could not explain this sensation in any way that would allow another human to understand. To others, I seemed strange. My feelings were often bizarrely congruent. For example, sometimes, when things were going badly, when I was hurt or deeply disappointed, when my heart was broken and by all rights I should be crying, I’d be filled with a strange sense of satisfaction or happiness.
The day my father died, I was weeping and mourning with my family, feeling all the pain any adult child might feel at the loss of a beloved parent. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by a deep sense of joy and peace. I stopped crying and sat wordless, smiling beatifically. In an instant, I no longer felt like grieving.
By then, people were used to my strange moods. They shook their heads and reminded each other in whispers that I’d always been odd.
Sometimes, too, in the middle of a happy time, when it seemed everything was going my way, I would be stricken by a sadness that sucked all the joy out of me. On my wedding day, I could not stop crying. I loved my husband. He was the right man for me. I was thrilled to be marrying him. I had no doubts. And yet, I was filled with inexplicable sadness. They made no sense, not even to me.
Eventually, my husband and I moved to the city. One day, a friend became angry at me because she said I had snubbed her in public. I had no such recollection. “You looked right at me, smiled back at me, and kept walking.”
Then it happened again. And again.
Sometime, strangers would approach me, greeting me familiarly, calling me by a different name. When I denied I was who they thought I was, most did not believe me. Some thought I was joking or playing a game. One or two became angry or insulted.
I began to seriously question my sanity. I was used to my unexpected emotions but I would never ignore my friends. I was not rude. I worried that the issues which had plagued me all my life were now progressing into a serious mental disorder. Was I losing touch with reality? Was I losing hours without knowing it? Was I losing my ability to recognize familiar people?
I did not share my fears with my husband so as not to worry him.
It went like that for perhaps a year.
Then, one day, I was in a café, reading a newspaper, having a my lunch. Out of the corner of my eye, I perceived what I believed, in that first tenth of a second, was my own reflection. In the next tenth of a second, I realized this was not so. We were not moving in tandem. We were not dressed alike.
I looked again, this time, more carefully. She hadn’t noticed me yet.
I could not stop myself from staring. Finally, I stood up and walked over to her table, and sat down in front of her. She picked her face up from her book, first in annoyance at being disturbed, and then, her jaw dropped in incredulity.
We were not merely two people who looked similar. We were identical. Even to a mole on high on our right cheek.
We sat there for what felt like a long time, just staring at each other. She too, had had a lifetime of disconsonant emotion. Her recent encounters with strangers and the upset of friends at having been snubbed had also made her question her sanity.
But now, the logic was beginning to dawn.
“Birthday?” I asked. Just one word. She immediately understood the importance.
It was the same as mine.
*****
When we were little more than a cluster of cells, we split in two. “I” became “we” inside our mother’s womb. There, we shared one soul. When our forms became more distinct, our soul also split in two. One soul, one set of DNA, two separate people.
We came into the world minutes apart, and clung to each other in our first hours. Others saw us as two, but we still felt as one.
Our mother was sick and poor and alone, not able to care for us. And so we were given away to those who could. No one would take us both. Those with the power over our lives decided it was best for us each to have a loving home, rather than to remain together in an orphanage. Cleaved yet again, both from mother and each other.
We were too young to remember any of this. Even our adoptive parents did not know we were twins.
****
That was the first time in our lives we both felt whole and that our feelings made sense.
We each had places to go, obligations to keep. It was painful to take leave of each other but we arranged to meet later that evening, in the same cafe. We talked until the place closed down. We then went back to her apartment which was closer than mine. Her husband and son were already sleeping, but she insisted I peek into the boy’s room to see him. My nephew! Flesh and blood, twice in one day!
From that day on, we were as inseparable as two separate people can be. Our families became one. Our children played as cousins. Our husbands became as brothers.
We still felt each other’s feelings, but they were no longer a mystery.
We both lived to be quite old, and died within months of each other. And here we are, together, waiting to be born again. Perhaps as one, perhaps as two.
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Wa
I did things I was not proud of; things I lived long to regret. I still bear their weight upon my soul.
Before the war, I thought of myself as a civilized, rational, intellectually sophisticated human being. It was shocking to me how quickly starvation and deprivation sucked the civility right out of me. With the Angel of Death as my constant companion, it was easy to lose track of my humanity. With a landscape of nothing but cruelty, it was impossible to hold tight to my values.
Some people did inhuman things and made inhuman sacrifices to save the ones they loved. I cared only about saving myself. I put my own life, which wasn’t worth much, above those of others who might have done some real good. I gave aid and information to the enemy in exchange for another day. I betrayed my friends, my leaders, my beliefs, so that I would not suffer.
Before the war, I thought I knew which side I was on; which side others were on. In the throes of the nightmare, however, the only side that mattered was my own.
And so I lived and ate and stayed warm while better ones than I died for their cause; for their families; for their love of country. Had they lived, they might have changed the course of history. My only goal was to stay out of its way.
When it was over, I created a history of how I survived. I painted myself as an innocent, a victim. I told it so often, to so many people, I too believed it occasionally. I worked to delude myself into believing I did only what was natural; something any human would do: I saved my own life. But I had seen too many examples of selfless sacrifice not to feel reproached by them.
And so I lived the rest of my life shackled to shame and guilt, knowing I had betrayed those far better than myself.
I am still bound by those chains.
——————
First published January 14, 2015
Ti
I met him when we were children and I loved him the minute I laid eyes on him.
It was in the play yard of my first school. The Bully, who tormented us all in one way or another, was picking on a much younger boy. He was boxing at his ears, tugging the collar of his jacket as if to pull it off, stopping short of hurting him but tormenting him nevertheless. It was his idea of fun, puffing himself up at the little one’s expense.
I was on the swings, pumping my legs furiously, taking myself as high as possible, not paying much attention to that bit of mischief. Suddenly a boy with dark curly hair, way on the other side of the yard, noticed the altercation and made a beeline across the playground. His direct path, fierce determination and brisk pace made him pop out against the random chaos of recess. He caught my interest even from way up in the air.
It was clear to me he was going to interfere, but what would he do? The Bully was bigger than everyone. And yet, this hero seemed fully confident, full of righteous indignation. I scraped the heels of my white shoes on the dirt to bring myself to a full stop, and followed him with my eyes.
The Bully was backed up by his friends, as bullies often are. Simply humiliating another human being is never enough. They need an audience; someone to remind them that, at least for the moment, they are in control.
The hero walked right up to them, stepped between the troublemakers and the little boy, and nudged the child aside, to safety. The boy ran away, frightened but relieved. Then, the hero leaned over and whispered something to the Bully so that none of his friends could hear. It was as if he had stuck a pin in a balloon, that’s how quickly the Bully deflated. He slunk away, his head hung in shame. The hero never even took his hands out of his pockets.
I knew right then, in that playground, I would marry him someday. And so I did. And I spent my life striving to become worthy of such a man’s love. He made me a better person, and that was only one of the reasons I loved him.
We married young, raised three children, and had a good and happy life together. We had our challenges, but we never let anything or anyone come between us. He was my hero, always and forever.
And then he got sick.
It started slowly, the descent into infirmity. We weren’t very old. Our youngest child had just gotten married. It was right after the wedding when the weakness started. The disease progressed slowly. In the beginning, we were able to joke about it. We accommodated his limitations. We took things more slowly, spent more time at home. As long as we were together, we could manage everything.
Eventually, as he deteriorated , it was hard to maintain our sense of humor. We saw doctors more often than we saw our children or grandchildren. He became dependent upon me for everything. I was happy that I was there to help but this kind of constant care takes its toll on the caretaker. I dreaded the time when I could no longer do for him what he needed. I knew I could not carry or lift him, even as frail as he had become.
I don’t deny that I sometimes felt put upon and angry and frustrated by our, by my, circumstances, but I resisted self-pity and did everything I could to keep him at home. My children begged me to put him in a place where he could have full time care. I was not so young myself, anymore, and it was wearing on me. But I couldn’t do that to us. His body was gone but his mind was intact. Our love was intact. I would not be the one to abandon it.
The time came, however, when I could not care for him alone. His mind was starting to go. The end, while not imminent, was not far away.
One day, when I was cuddled in bed with him (as we still often did), he asked me for the biggest favor he’d ever asked of me. He wanted me to help him die, there at home, in our bed, with my arms around him. He did not want to die in a hospital, hooked up to tubes, unconscious or unaware of his surroundings, being poked and stuck with needles and monitors. We both knew there wasn’t much time before that would be inevitable.
I was terrified, both of living without him and of being the cause of his end, but he knew what he wanted and I was the only one who could give it to him. I cried for days when he asked me, but we both knew I would do it. It was time for me to be a hero to my hero.
I found a method that was painless and undetectable. I held him in my arms, stroking his head, as his breathing slowed and eventually stopped.
I lived for many years more, alone, missing him every minute of every day. When my time came, he was here waiting for me. I flew to him in joy.
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