When Did I Get So Old?

So, before I have to deal with all of my friends commenting on this blog post with reminders of how old I am not, let me just say, I know. I know I'm not older than any of you and I know I'm still young in the grand scheme of things.

My titular question has more to do with how old I feel, rather than my actual age in years. I recently found myself at a party surrounded by a few people that I was pretty sure were mentally unwell. Turns out they're just young. What a relief. Here I thought I was in a room full of over-sexed morons. I'm sure I didn't act like these people when I was their age, a mere five years ago. There's no way. Or did I?

That feeling we all have when we're kids, that feeling deep inside that tells us that when we're older, we'll understand ... that feeling has never gone away for me. With each passing birthday I expect that I'll finally feel grown-up only to discover that I feel like I know less and less every day. I do understand that there is nothing wrong with this feeling. It is a good thing, even. The whole 'the more you know the less you know' thing. Humility and what not. I get it and I've made peace with it. But when did I start thinking 20-somethings were young, and quite frankly obnoxious? Not to mention loud. Am I right, or am I right? They are L-O-U-D. Perhaps it's all the captilized texting and overuse of exclamation points that suddenly became the norm not so long ago. Seriously, do you have to put an exclamation point after Thanks! at the end of every email. It makes me distrust your gratitude.

But I digress. As I mentioned, I did feel relief when I learned the age of the over-sexed morons, but it felt very strange to hear myself say, "oh well that explains it". And I meant it. Their age did fully explain to me their complete lack of self-awareness, though I doubt I would have given myself so much slack at that age.

Granted, my life has changed dramatically. Five years ago I was a swinging city singleton (okay, not really swinging, but I was single and did live in the city). Now I own house and a dog and some cats and have acquired a very lovely man with whom I will spend the rest of my days. This doesn't make me feel old, though. On the contrary it makes me feel alive and full of more possibility than ever before imagined in my younger days.

Maybe that's the difference. The young 20-somethings think that those are the best years of their lives. Little do they know that the best is yet to come. As soon as they stop talking so godamn LOUD, they'll be able to hear those little voices of intuition that tell them it's okay. It's okay if your legs don't look like Elle Macpherson's. They never did and they never will. It's okay if every boy at the party doesn't want you. They don't really want you, just the idea of you and you're more than an idea. It's okay if you don't know what you want, so don't waste any time trying to seem certain that you've got it all figured out. You don't have to be sure about anything.

That is, until you're my age, and then you can be sure that when you were the age you are now, you seemed like an over-sexed LOUD moron to this old lady.

"... unconditional love will have the final word in reality." - Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

One of my yoga teachers discussed Grace in a class last week. She liked a particular definition that she found: Grace is enabling power sufficient for progression.

I like that definition as well. I think of Grace as unconditional love. It is something that is bestowed upon us irrespective of our deeds or actions, simply for being derived from the divine. The same way our parents love us even when we back our car into a tree or do things we're not proud of, or make mistakes with horrible consequences. While these things may affect our parent's blood pressure or insurance premium, it should not affect their love for us.


Grace is a hard concept to wrap one's brain around. It has been for me, anyway, and I think that the lack of unconditional love in this world has a lot to do with it. We all need parables of the divine in our human life to understand the "higher things". Whatever "higher things" means to you.


It's interesting how the majority of an entire generation of us seems to have been raised doubting the unconditional love of our parents. How did that happen? I know very few people my age who know that their parents love is pure and true. Of course, we also have the luxury of being only the second generation to have time, energy, and resources to "explore our feelings", "deal with our issues", and "talk it out". Our parents were really the first, and they hadn't perfected it like we have. I often wonder if my parents were so busy analyzing their parent's failures, that they never had the time to wonder if they were repeating the same mistakes? And if that's the case, will I do the same thing?


In the Hebrew Scriptures, the word that is translated into Grace has the meaning of refusal to abandon a person (or group of people) for breaking their commitments or promises. God's unconditional love for the Israelites, a perfect example. The Catholic idea of Grace is a bit different. It comes from God, is undeserved, and works something out in us, namely our reconciliation to God. The Orthodox churches see Grace simply as God's spirit which carries out his will.


Probably needless to say, the Hebrew idea is more appealing to me. Fact is, none of us asked to be born. Most of us are here due to the desires of someone else. To bring us here and then tell us we have to earn unconditional loves seems unfair. It seems we shouldn't be brought here if unconditional love isn't already on the table, waiting for our arrival.

But I digress.


The reason I so like the definition for Grace that my yoga teacher gave –enabling power sufficient for progression – is because progress, for ourselves and others, is really what love is all about. When we love someone purely and truly, our desire is to see them grow and change and to become the best possible version of themselves.


If we're on a search for Grace or The Divine, why not start by committing to be a force in people's lives which challenges them to be open to change, to develop, to expand as beings? I've been on a search for The Divine my entire life, and for the first time, I feel like I have a hold on what it means to me: to choose love over fear.

Mind vs Spirit

My yogi brought up the mind/spirit connection the other day in class. The mind/body connection has been a more discussed and contemplated topic, but I found the mind/spirit discussion to be fascinating. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.

In yoga, as in life, our minds very often control our bodies. Yoga is one of many practices where we push the body beyond what the mind thinks it can do, and through this expansion of body, an expansion of mind occurs. The conflict between mind and body is thus resolved. For that moment, anyway. The next day we start over, perhaps from a new place, perhaps not. And so it goes, until we die, or achieve enlightenment. Whichever comes first.

Mind and spirit - what's the difference and how are they in conflict? Well, my spirit tells me that we are all one. I am you and you are me and everything is everything. But my mind, well my mind tells me that Sarah Palin is an alien from the planet Conservaton where they have daily sacrifices of women and their futures. My mind tells me that she and I have no commonality, no shared space.

My spirit tells me that we are all unique and beautiful snowflakes. My mind, on the other hand, tells me that most people in this country are automatons, conditioned to behave and respond in ways that are acceptable to the seething mass of humanity who decides these things.

My spirit tells me, Judge not, Before you judge yourself. Judge not, If you're not ready for judgement. Woah oh oh! (Yes, my spirit occasionally comes through in the voice of Bob Marley) My mind says, look at all this fuckery. What the fuck is the matter with all these crazy fucks. Fuckery!

My spirit tells me it's perfectly acceptable to dance to the soundtrack of my mind while in the canned goods aisle of the grocery store. My mind tells me that the automatons will laugh and judge. (My spirit usually wins out on this one, as many a lucky resident of this fare city has been fortunate to observe. )

My spirit tells me to create. My mind says I have no talent. My spirit says to love unconditionally, my mind tells me I'll get hurt. My spirit says to forgive unconditionally, my mind says they'll only do it again.

Thing is, I don't want to bring my mind to where my spirit is, exactly. I'd like it to head in that direction, sure, but I'm more interested in a meeting of the two. My spirit is awfully optimistic and somewhat aloof. If my spirit were a physical person it would wear hippie skirts and stink of patchouli. My mind is too grounded in reality. If it were a physical person it would be Woody Allen.

How to achieve the balance between being able to see the world as it is, while still being able to envision the world as it could be and then act on this vision?

Seriously, I'm asking. How?

Lets Go Anger

Lets Go Anger. A few months ago, while waiting for the Q32 bus home, I read those words off the back of a dusty delivery truck. They had been scrawled into the dust with a finger, it looked like. Lets go anger. Given the population of New York, it's hard to say if this was an ESL slip or a rallying cry for anger, much like the Bronx bombers, Let's go Yank -ees! Let's go an-ger! It could also have been a message of peace, simply missing a few filler words - Let go of anger. I began to wonder, of course, who had scrawled the message in the first place. Was it the driver of the delivery truck? A Buddhist vigilante? An indignant soul? Was the driver of the delivery truck an indignant Buddhist vigilante?

Living in New York, one doesn't really have to try to be angry. You'll find plenty of opportunities to feel angry should you so desire. Given the amount of anger one can experience internally and externally on any given day in this city, it seems hard to believe that someone would feel the need to create a chant for anger. On the other hand, not feeling anger can be just as harmful as feeling too much anger. So, perhaps this message on the back of the delivery truck was in support of feeling your feelings, whatever they may be.

Feeling my feelings is a relatively new experience for me. I used to be able to squash them, tie them up neatly with a bow, and store them in my inner closet that never gets cleaned. "Don't cry outloud", I used tell myself. "Just keep it inside. Learn how to hide your feelings, dear girl." This worked for a time and quite nicely, I might add.

But then, therapy happened. I wasted a good year in therapy resisting the urges that were becoming ever more frequent to feel my feelings. Having been raised in an environment where none of my feelings were correct or justified or understood, it was much easier to just stop feeling them. If you choose not to feel pain, nothing hurts.

But then therapy keeps happening. And soon, before you know it, you're feeling all sorts of things. Pain, oh the pain. Time marches on and you start thinking all these feelings are good for you.Your therapist will delight in hearing this. If you throw in some tears they'll be in nirvana.

I think an indignant Buddhist vigilante therapist scrawled that into the back of the truck.

Inshallah

This weekend I had a dream in which I said "Inshallah" over and over again. After everything I said in my dream, I said "Inshallah". After everything others said in my dream, I said, "Inshallah". God-willing. If God wills it. Considering that my feelings towards God are skeptical, at best, I found it a bit strange that my subconscious was only willing to accept what was being said as long as it was okay with the big (wo)man upstairs.

One of my favorite expressions in Spanish is ojala. I remember when I learned that expression. I used it often. Ojala - god-willing. The origin of Ojala is, of course, Inshallah.


I've also been known to have a certain fondness for the expression, "from your mouth to God's ears". This is less god-willing and more I-hope-God's-listening-in. This expression must only be used if one is willing to go whole hog, and make the appropriate gesture, which is a combination of eye roll while pointing from person's mouth to sky/heaven.

For someone who claims not to believe in a God who intervenes, I'm sure expecting this God to will or not will and listen or not listen to a lot of stuff.

India Part III - Varanasi

"In that state, free from attachment, they move at will, laughing, playing, and rejoicing, They know the Self is not this body, but only tied to it for a time as an ox is tied to its cart". - Chandogya Upanishad

Varanasi. City of Thieves. City of Light. City of Final Liberation This is how one of my guidebooks described Varanasi, also called Benares. The oldest constantly inhabited city in the world, it is also the holiest city in India and the most auspicious place to die. Being cremated on the banks of the holy Ganges and then scattering the ashes into the flowing current ensures that the soul will be purified of sin and that one will have a peaceful passing into the next life. For the living, three dunks in the river will erase seven generations of bad karma and allow you to start fresh. Everyday the city nearly doubles in population through the influx of pilgrims and those who come there to die. It is a city of fresh beginnings and endings, a constant flow of life forces, some leaving a bodily vessel and some residing in newly purified vessels.

We watched the sun rise from a boat on the river one morning. At the edge of the river people were bathing and washing clothes and meditating and cremating their loved ones. I saw a man brushing his teeth in the water one ghat away from the main cremation ghat. This should have disturbed me, and it did, as I contemplated all the potential diseases he was basically rubbing into his teeth and gums. The Ganges is so polluted in Varanasi that the water is septic. More than disturbed, however, I was taken aback by the jolt of admiration for his faith that I suddenly felt. How amazing that this man believes so fiercely in the sacredness of this river and its healing properties that he is willing to brush his teeth in this clearly filthy water. He, along with all the faithful in Varanasi, will bathe in this water, three dunks, and fully believe that the benefit to their soul is far greater than any harm it could do to their body. Blind faith? Absolutely. But isn't all faith blind? One could argue that I was witnessing, not acts of faith but acts of ignorance, and I suppose it is possible that there is simply a lack of understanding of just how foul the water is and how waterborne diseases work. Then again, the filthiness is quite visible. (see pic) Along the banks of the river there are these life-aquatic-style mini "submarines" that periodically test the toxicity of the water, the results of which are completely ignored. I do believe that it is faith that not only allows but compels these people to ignore the obvious, and instead trust in the invisible powers that they know exist. Perhaps this kind of faith is foolish or worse, but I wouldn't mind having that unshakable of a faith in something. (Incidentally, it didn't rub off on me, not one bit. While we were sitting on that boat, I gave my traveling companian strict instructions to throw me on one of those cremation pyres if I fell in.)

When my mind wasn't occupied considering my decrepit faith, I was trying to internalize all of the other lessons to be learned from this holy city. Varanasi, in general, can be described as surreal. Supremely surreal, perhaps, if there are varying degrees of surreality? It is a place where life and death and devotion and commerce and beauty and ugliness and criminals and holy men and women all smash into each other in a swirl of color and sound and smell and painfully exposed humanity. It is the loudest quiet city you will ever visit. The sounds of supplication are constantly heard, overlapping into a symphony of fervent worship that has no finale. Children play at flying kites mere steps from where cremations are happening non-stop. Hustlers stalk the ghats alongside sadhus. Nothing and everything makes sense there.

The moment I acknowledged this, I began to wonder, Why am I always trying to make sense of things anyway? Does all the energy I spend trying to "figure it out" take away from my ability to be present in each moment? Perhaps "it" will reveal itself if I just relax and let it. Maybe it won't. Either way I'll probably enjoy myself more. My whole life I've had this sneaking suspicion that everybody knew something I didn't. Standing there in Varanasi, I wondered - What if nothing makes sense to anybody, except when it does?

Every night, five Brahmin perform a ceremony to put the Ganges to sleep. Their chants and repetitive movements with candelabras and incense are meant to express humility and thanksgiving. These two things, humility and thanksgiving, may be the two greatest things I took away from this holy place. I was absolutely humbled by how little I understood and knew and could ever understand and know about this place. I was humbled by the reminder of what a small part I play in the cycle of life. I am just one body and one soul, and my time occupying this body on this planet is but a mere speck of time on the great timeline. I was humbled by the deep faith and devotion I saw. I was thankful to have witnessed it, thankful to have shared it with someone I love. I was thankful for my very good life. Mostly, I was thankful that I don't have all the answers. Answers are the one thing you don't need in Varanasi.

India Part II - Baksheesh

India is a country with its hand out. Sometimes this hand is reaching for your hand and guiding you to a place you never knew you wanted to go. Other times, this hand is asking you for a pen or shampoo. Most times, this hand is looking for a little baksheesh. Baksheesh can be a tip, charitable giving, or a bribe. In my experience, it usually feels like all three at once.

I once had an ethics professor who told us of his trip to India and how on that trip he realized that giving to beggars was unethical, as it did nothing but continue to support the lifestyle, and did not force the individual or the government to do something about the situation that caused the necessity or the desire to beg in the first place. From a utilitarian standpoint, giving to beggars does not serve the greater good. Of course, this same ethics professor also asked me out during the semester, so I doubted the soundness of his ethical reasoning.

Like most things in India, I found that baksheesh is a force that doesn't really care how you feel about it. It is what it is. It's here , it's queer, get used to it. Is it ethical? I kept myself too busy contemplating the overwhelming number of Hindu gods to thoroughly address the question. There were, however, two occasions that put the sheesh in backsheesh for me. The first was at an airport in Varanasi. The bathroom attendant lady (and no, the existence of a bathroom attendant does not indicate that the bathroom was in any way similar to the bathroom at a fancy restaurant - no mouthwash in sight) started showing a great deal of interest in my camera. I recognized this ploy for what it was immediately - an attempt to get me to take her picture, so she could then ask for a baksheesh. (My favorite spin on this particular ploy is when you're at some beautiful location, and there are several women wandering around, constantly walking into your frame and then asking you for a baksheesh for basically ruining your picture) I played dumb for quite some time and just started showing her pictures from the trip. I chuckled to myself and thought how funny it would be if I then asked her for a baksheesh for the slide show. But, Ganesh bless her, she persisted until she broke me down. I did take the picture, having been lulled into believing that she simply wanted to see herself on the little screen. And then, out came the hand. Baksheeshed again, sucka.

The second time was upon our departure from Delhi. An airline employee actually asked for baksheesh. An airline employee. In a uniform. Can you imagine if the person who checked you into your Delta flight down to Boca put out their hand and asked for a tip? Our Western minds simply do not comprehend the way of the baksheesh. Of course, we in the Western world assume, usually correctly, that the airline employee checking us in is being paid a living wage. This assumption cannot be made with a reasonable degree of certainty in India. We, at first, refused his request, but then upon further thought imagined our bags being sent to Kathmandu instead of JFK and pulled out 40 rupees. Which brings me to another thing - the expected baksheesh is so small, so inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, that at times you can feel silly resenting it. And yet, the expectation that it is our responsibility to compensate for the social ills of an overpopulated country - well, then you feel silly for supporting it.

Lest I sound cold or unfeeling (or worse, cheap) the fact is that people are poor. Very poor. I have much more money than they do, and as I said, 40 rupees is nothing to me. But what does my giving accomplish? This question sticks even more in my mind after having witnessed the industriousness of Dhavari slum. The slum in Bombay was the one and only place in India where nobody requested baksheesh. Not one person, which does much to support the argument that people do not need to beg to survive, they need to work. And if they can't work? Then what?

The picture posted on the right was accidentally taken by me in Varanasi. After a long day of walking the ghats, I was sitting with my travel companion reviewing the days pictures when I came across this one. I remembered the moment it must have been taken - the little boy approached me from my blind side and startled me, my arm jerked back and I probably squeezed my camera, snapping the picture. I showed my friend the picture and announced that I had finally captured IT. India that is. To me this picture is India. You are constantly faced with the hand of a stranger stretched out in your direction, and the ever-present question: What is the right thing to do? Is my ethical obligation to the group as a whole or to the person in front of me with their hand out?

I ask myself these same questions here in New York when someone asks me for money, but the stakes feel higher in India, and the outstretched hand represents something bigger than the momentary request for baksheesh. It is a country with so much to offer, and yet needing so much. Where to begin? Do I have to begin? Am I obligated as a citizen of a wealthier country, as a fellow human, as a sympathizer? If I am obligated, what is the best thing to do? Should I give to everyone who asks it of me? How do I determine need? Do I get involved on a larger scale? How much will that help? If I get involved in trying to right the economic and social wrongs of a country half-way around the world, how much energy do I have to devote to the economic and social wrongs in my own country? Am I able to focus on the problems in another country because there they can unabashedly ask for help, while my fellow citizens cannot/do not? Do my fellow citizens unabashedly ask for help, while I simply ignore them, too caught up in my own life to notice?

I wonder what H.H. the Dalai Lama would say? ...

India Part I - Dharavi

There are many words. many contradictions, to describe India. Beautiful, hideous, amazing, horrifying, inspiring, depressing, magical, seething, wanting, needing, generous... the list goes on and on. Having just returned, I am still trying to absorb and process - something that feels like it could take years to do.

I struggled with many questions the entire time I was there, but the one that seemed to be most prominent is, Why was I born into my life and why were you born into yours? I felt like I was silently asking this question to every person with whom I came into contact. One can either see great order or complete randomness in the reality of life in India. Do the Hindus and Sikhs believe in reincarnation and karma as a means to explain their lot in life? Is accepting that the life you are born into is completely coincidental just too much to bear? Perhaps the belief that there is meaning and reason behind being born into a Bombay slum or the grandest apartment on Malabar Hill is what makes it manageable. Perhaps it is what makes it allowable, as well.

I spent one afternoon in Dharavi slum in Bombay, which is home to over a million people. The slum is very industrious, doing about $650 million a year in business. One hears this figure and then looks around, and wonders how it is possible that there is raw sewage running through the streets and children playing a game of cricket on a 3-story tall garbage heap without shoes or even underpants? There are plans to destroy the slum and build more acceptable housing for its residents. Two-hundred twenty-five square feet structures will be given to each family who can prove they have been residents in Dharavi since before 1995. The rest will have to find another place to live, as the land will be given to developers who will build for-profit housing and shops and cafes and malls. The slum is a prime bit of real estate, and the land will make many people a tidy bundle. None of the current residents, of course, many of whom will have to find some place else to call home, someplace other than where they've been living for the last 13 years.

The narrow alleys filled with human and animal feces, the low-ceiling cramped rooms that house 10-15 people, the sheer and utter filth - it's not how people should live. That much is true. But where will these people go? We were greeted by smiles when we entered the slum. It took no time at all to realize that these smiles weren't directed at us necessarily, but at everyone. I have never seen so many happy people all at once in New York or anywhere else. The children that were squealing with delight as they ran shoeless and without hesitation through the winding dirt paths which they seem to know like their own hands, were an absolute joy to watch. Within moments all you notice is their smiles, as their surroundings melt away. They are simply happy children, enjoying a Sunday afternoon. Their parents are simply people, working hard, trying to feed their families and to enjoy their days. We are them and they are us, the only differences between us a few thousand miles and dollars.

And yet to say that the only things that separate us are miles and dollars is absurd. As I look around the slum I wonder how many Westerners, if given the choice to end their lives or to live their lives in these conditions would choose life. These people, the residents of Dharavi, choose life each and every day. They wake up every day into poverty that is almost unimaginable, they work hard, they live and they love, and then they go to bed on a hard floor with a dozen other people and the next day it starts all over again. There is no end in sight and no reason to believe that things will get better in this lifetime, unless they are "lucky" enough to have lived like this for more than 13 years. And even then, how much better will it be? One could say that they don't know any different, but one would be wrong. These are not isolated people. These are residents of Bombay, the most populous city in the world, a center of commerce - the 10th largest in the world, and they are smack-dab in the center of the city. They know much different, and they see how the other half lives each and every day.

I was expecting to feel guilt upon entering the slum. Guilt for being white, born into a rich country, having had a good meal available to me every day of my life, having an education, an apartment bigger than what I need, and money to spend on a weekend movie, among other things. I did feel guilt, though my overwhelming emotion was admiration. You cannot help but admire their dignity, their strength. It is rare in the world I operate in daily to see such fortitude in the face of overwhelming hardship. I also found myself appreciating their ability to find purpose and significance in their lot in life. In their suffering there is meaning, and in each day a new opportunity to add to the good karma that will be their eventual ticket out of this life.

Appreciation for their belief system and the positive effect is has in their lives is one of the many things from India I want to wrap up tightly and put into a safe place and hold onto forever. I hope to be able to find meaning in my own suffering, slight as it may be in comparison. I hope to be able to face the hardships in my life with an equal measure of strength and dignity. Mostly, I hope to smile as broadly and as often.

More lessons to come ...

Fear

Fear. I have a lot of fears. Some rational, some not. For example, a fear of falling onto the tracks from the subway platform - totally rational. My fear of looking out windows at night - not so rational. My fear of losing someone I love - rational. It happens. My fear of losing everyone I love on the same day in a series of unfortunate, unrelated, cataclysmic events - probably not rational.

A lot of people have a lot of things to say about the subject. Bob Dylan said people's greatest fear is silence. Rosa Parks said that knowing what one must do diminishes fear. A Japanese proverb says fear is only as deep as the mind allows. And (you knew this was coming) the Dalai Lama says that the key to ridding yourself of fear is to practice compassion and inner peace. This just happens to be his answer for, well, everything.

When I was a kid, the Bible was an answer for everything. The Good Book talks about fear a lot - all types of fears - cowardice, godly fear, guilty fear. "Do not fear, for I am with you". (Isaiah 41:10) This scripture was recited constantly as a cure-all for the fears of my childhood. Of course, we're also told in this same book to fear God, to fear his wrath, then not to fear, we have no reason to fear, only the unrighteous are fearful ... it can all be very confusing. The situation is not helped by the fact that there are several Hebrew and Greek words, with different meanings, that all translate to the one English word, fear. For example, the Hebrew word yare', which depending on how it's used, can mean to feel afraid, to be in awe of, reverence, honor, respect, to inspire reverence, to cause astonishment. I wonder how many people who read the Bible and allow it to guide their life actually consider the meaning of each instance. Maybe all of them do, I just don't know. If one were to look up the word fear in an English dictionary, it would list a meaning of reverential awe, though I very rarely hear the word used in this way. If someone were to mention feeling fearful when they were at the Grand Canyon, for instance, they would likely be referring to the height and a fear of falling over the edge, rather than the awe and amazement they felt at it's size and grandeur.

This past week I've been trying to notice each time somebody mentions a fear or feeling afraid. My very in-depth and totally accurate investigation which I carried out by basically eavesdropping and then trying to remember what was said (that's how it's done, right?) has revealed to me that, surprise! we're all the same. The list of things that we're afraid of includes abandonment, bugs, loss, death, life, failure, success, intimacy, commitment, getting caught, change, reality television, calories, poverty, money, heights, losing, winning, love, hate, alienation, flying, regret, solitude, illness, suffering, terrorists, Cheney, Guiliani, ignorance, just to name a few.

So, what to do? Well some fears are totally manageable. My fear of going over the edge on the subway platform? I just stay behind the yellow line. And I also keep an eye out for crazy people who may want to push me over the edge. (Look, it happened on an episode of Homicide: Life on the Street, and as we all know, TV is an actual portrayal of real life.) My fear of looking out the window at night? I just don't do it. Fear of losing the people I love, one at a time or all at once? Well, the fact is that I will lose the people I love eventually. Death is a part of life. All I can do is try to be good to them, and love them as best as I possibly can in each moment. Rosa Parks says we should have a plan, H.H. the D.L. says we should practice compassion and seek inner peace, and the Japanese say, don't let fear in. The Apostle John said there is no fear in love. I get his point, but love is pretty darn scary. And if we really think about it, don't all fears boil down to a fear of losing who and what we love?

A very good friend of mine responded very wisely to one of my earlier posts with advice that I think is excellent. In my post about prayer, I mentioned my fear of take-off and landing while flying. He said the way he deals with anxiety while flying due to turbulence, for example, is to say, "This is where I am, and this is what is happening". Isn't my friend smart? I really hope I don't lose him in a series of unfortunate, cataclysmic events.

What do you fear, dear readers? And what do you do about it?

The Dalai Lama Says ... :Thanksgiving Edition

"The roots of all goodness lie in the soil of appreciation for goodness"

I read this quote just the other day. Since it is the season of giving thanks, I've been thinking about all the things for which I am appreciative this year. Usually, I would say something like, "my friends, my family, my health ...". Often times, when we say we're thankful for something, we're actually saying that we're grateful for the lack of problems in these areas. For example, " my friends aren't dead, my family is somewhat functional, and my health isn't deteriorating rapidly". Maybe it's just me, but I think my thankfulness is usually about an absence of badness, rather than an abundance of goodness.

Dear readers, this is the year it changes. Rather than thinking, "Thank goodness it didn't all go to hell this year", I'm going to focus on the very wise words of H.H. the Dalai Lama and really concentrate on all the genuine goodness that surrounds me. It's been a good year in my fair corner of the world...

I have wonderful friends, inspiring individuals, one and all - they are falling in love and getting married and staying married and having babies and getting books published and graduating school and teaching school. Signs of love and growth abound.

I have about a billion nieces and nephews (okay, not a billion, more like two dozen or so) who are growing up into fascinating people, with opinions and expressions all their own.

I have my five senses (some sharper than others) which make my days full of colors and sounds and smells and tastes and textures that enhance each moment.

I have experienced many emotions this year that have all led to personal growth and a truer understanding of who I am. This may perhaps be the thing for which I am most thankful.

I also appreciate several things that are admittedly less meaningful, but still good - the newest Velvet Revolver album, for example. The taco cart on Queens Blvd and 40th Street, the Green Market in Sunnyside, the vanilla bean french toast at La Flor ... and yes I did notice that three of the four things on this list have to do with food. Which is apropos, since Thanksgiving is all about being grateful and stuffing ourselves silly. (Oh, I am also grateful for my step-father who taught me the word "apropos" when I was seven)

What goodness do you appreciate, dearest readers?

Hot for Hillary

I read an article earlier today that said that both male and female feminists have better and more satisfying relationships. (more and better sex, too!) I was enjoying the article immensely until I got to the end where it said that the suspected reason that men who said they were married to feminists were more satisfied is perhaps because they have help sharing the financial burden. Are we still defining feminism in such narrow terms? And is this the only good that has come from feminism? Help paying the mortgage?

Feminism is still a highly misunderstood word. I once dated a man who announced to his family that I was a feminist, but not THAT kind, so not to worry. You know the ugly bitchy angry man-hating lesbian kind that many people picture when they hear the word.

There's this person, named Hillary Clinton, seeking the democratic nomination for President. You may have heard of her. She's a woman, as my pronoun suggests. This is drumming up a lot of conversation about women in this country, as it should. Hillary has been accused of playing the feminist card when it's convenient for her. (as far as I can tell, this is just how Hillary rolls) If Hillary captures the Democratic nomination, I will vote for her. Not because she is a woman, but because I believe she is better suited for the job than any of the Republican candidates. But I have some qualms. I fear that Hillary will do the job "like a man". I wonder if she has any choice. Perhaps the only way to achieve that level of power is to behave in a masculine way (all the while being criticized for it). And if that's true, then Hillary being elected President really isn't an indication of how far women have come. If we're still requiring women to act like men in order to achieve the same status that men have held for years, then all we've really accomplished is gender-ignoring.

Hillary's supporters right now are young, single, working, and middle to low class women. Older, wealthier, white women don't like her very much. I find this interesting since Hillary herself is an older, wealthier, white woman. Self-hatred? Perhaps. Maybe the difference in opinion lies in the fact that young single women's ambitions are still intact and haven't yet suffered through the compromises required to "have it all" in a patriarchal society. Older married women, on the other hand have been through it. Maybe they tried to balance a family and marriage with career and personal ambitions and maybe it hasn't worked out the way they'd imagined. And then comes Hillary - ambitious and still thinking she can be the woman from the Virginia Slims ads. Hillary's ambition has always been her downfall. Women hate her for it just as vehemently as men do. How dare her want what men have wanted for centuries! How dare her stay with her cheating husband, without apology, for political gain! (Sarkozy, anyone?) Or worse, for love! How dare her!

I do love the idea of a woman president, but voting for a woman just because she's a woman - well that's anti-feminist. Feminism would require that you vote for the person who will best further and uphold feminist ideals of peace, equality, and freedom for everyone, male or female. I think Kucinich is probably the only candidate who is a true feminist, but we all know he'll never get the nomination. He's not masculine (or tall) enough and therefore himself a victim of this patriarchal system (and the munchkin genes).

So what's a girl to do? Well this girl bought her brother a t-shirt that shows support for Hillary by objectifying her, and then made him wear it in front of his mostly Republican family. And then took a picture.

I Remember Now

Yesterday, I was on the ol' Q32 on my way home. An adorable older couple got on. They'd been shopping at Bloomingdale's. There were no seats available and about 5 people jumped up to offer them theirs. The couple graciously accepted two of the offers and then smiled at and thanked everyone who was looking in their direction. We all nodded and smiled and thanked the people who had jumped up and offered their seats. Then we all smiled some more.

THIS is why I live here, I thought. You can have a rough week in New York, but then something happens that reminds you of why New York is so great. Living in a big city like ours provides so many opportunities to witness random acts of kindness. And, gosh, that makes you feel good.

Oh, New York, how I love thee ... sorry I doubted you.

Why do I live here?

MONDAY - After spending a lovely weekend in a fare city, in a faraway land called Virginia, I landed at LaGuardia, to be greeted by a taxi strike. It cost double and took twice as long as it usually does to get home. I had to share the ride with three other disgruntled travelers who chose to take out all of their anger and frustration on the driver. After about 20 minutes of enduring their misery, I finally piped up and asked them to leave the poor man alone. He's just trying to feed his kids. My decision to stand up for this man was a risky one and to tell you the truth, it didn't pay off. Not only did the disgruntled travelers turn their frustration and anger towards me, but so did the driver. He didn't need no stinkin' woman defending him. Well, pardon me.

TUESDAY - I went to my usual deli to get breakfast. I was standing in line waiting, and just as it was my turn, a suit walked in and started ordering in my place. The guy behind me got all upset on my behalf and I told him not to worry. It's just breakfast. But then the woman who had been before me turned around and asked, "How can you let him do that to you?". She was outraged. Not by him. By me. I said the same thing I'd told the other guy - it's just breakfast. Clearly, the suit thinks he needs it more urgently than I do and I'm not going to pick a fight about it. She made that noise that people make in the back of their throat when they are disgusted - you know the one I'm talking about - ughcchchch. It was accompanied by a very dramatic eye roll followed by a look of pity that was mixed with more disgust and perhaps a dash of scorn. Well, excuse me. I'm sorry?

WEDNESDAY - I get on the bus to go home. At the next stop, an older woman gets on. She's not old old, but she's no spring chicken. She's probably a grandmother and she looks a little unsteady. So, I offer her my seat. Would you like my seat, ma'am? She responds with, "What, I'm too old to stand?". Deepest apologies, ma'am.

THURSDAY - I had a meeting at 10:30 with a woman who is a low-talker. Besides being a low-talker, she has the unfortunate affliction of not being able to match her facial expression to what she's saying. So, she asked me a question. I didn't hear her. I asked her to repeat herself. She asked me again. I was straining my ears to hear her, but it didn't work out. I still had no idea what she was saying, and her facial expression was giving me no clues. (If I could have trusted her facial expression, I would have guessed that she was telling me that she'd gotten a whiff of something awful) So, I apologized, and asked her to repeat herself one more time. She responded by yelling, " It's 10:30 in the morning! Time to wake up! What's the matter with you?". I only wish she'd been able to muster that kind of volume when she was asking me if I needed anything.

FRIDAY - It's pouring. It's cold. It's rush hour. Everyone is speeding down the sidewalk. Umbrellas are colliding, getting stuck one on the other. Owners of umbrellas are glaring at each other as their umbrellas collide. Control your umbrella, their looks say. The umbrella-less are glaring at the umbrella owners. Make your umbrella stop dripping water on me, is what their looks say. Walking through the streets of Manhattan with an umbrella is a blood sport, and I'm losing. These very same $5 umbrellas that we were all forced to buy from the guy on the street when we very foolishly left our houses without checking the weather forecast, will be scattered like dead carcasses on the streets and in the trash bins on the corners by morning. The wind will have destroyed them all. And then what will we glare at each other about? Huh? What?

Why do I live here?

No, seriously ... why?

Prayer

In his public talk on Sunday, the Dalai Lama mentioned prayer briefly. I was a bit surprised by what he said, which was essentially that prayer wouldn't change anything. It was said in the context of the war in Iraq and I believe he was referring to the need for action and not only passive prayer. It would be a mistake to only pray and wait for God to do something. H.H.'s point was well taken by this listener but it got me thinking about prayer. I began to wonder - do most people pray because it makes them feel better or do most people pray because they truly believe that God listens to and answers prayers?

I grew up in a house heavy on religion, light on spirituality. Prayer was a huge part of my life growing up. I had to pray before every meal (before a morsel of food touched my lips!, my mother would say) before bed, before during and after our weekly meetings, when I woke up, when I was anxious, scared, or sad, when I was happy or thankful. I was taught to pray continuously and to "persevere in prayer", as our good friend Paul wrote to the Romans. Not only did I have to spend almost every waking minute speaking to God in fervent prayer, but I had to be original. We were taught that it was sinful to repeat prayers. The Lord's Prayer was simply a model and not meant to be recited over and over again. Prayers had to be genuine and heartfelt. I spent many sleepless nights as a child and young adolescent worrying if perhaps the prayer I had just said was too much like the one I'd said the night before. Would God consider it a repeat? Shit! Maybe I'll only ask Him to take care of the widows and orphans every other prayer.

It was a lot of pressure. Imagine having to be interesting all the time. And not just interesting to your friends or family, but to, you know, God. Surely he was getting bored of my prayers. And sometimes, I just didn't know what to say. I have a fear of flying. Well, not the actual flying bit, just the landing and taking off bits. Two necessary bits of flying, I admit, but not the speeding through the air at high altitudes bit. Well, back when I used to pray incessantly, flying seemed like a good time to pray and beg God not to let me die. What I wanted to pray every time was, "please don't let me die, please don't let this plane crash on landing or takeoff, please don't let me die, I don't want to die in a plane crash". But, as you know, I had to be original. That prayer only worked the first time. Every other time I got on an airplane, I had to come up with more original ways to beg God not to let me die. I didn't want to offend him by repeating my original plea - especially not when my very safety depending on him wanting to answer my prayer.

And so it was that prayer came to be for me an obligation. It was like eating, only less enjoyable. If I wanted to live, I had to pray. The issue was not whether or not I believed in God. I did. The issue was, why couldn't I just say what I was honestly feeling each time I approached him? What if my desires, wishes, hopes, feelings hadn't changed during the day, and so my morning prayer and evening prayer were the same? Or what if I didn't know what to say? What if I just wanted to pray to feel close to God? Why couldn't I recite a prayer in these moments when I couldn't find the words? Why did he create me to find comfort in ritual and routine, and then demand that my prayers to him belie those things?

The religion in which I had been raised kicked me out when I started asking questions like these. It was then that I realized that perhaps the world-view I'd been taught, including all my ideas about God and prayer - it was all probably a big stinking pile of mumbo-jumbo. I didn't pray for years. Belief in the existence of a Creator became a distant memory - a memory that was laughable and almost quaint. I started condescending to my former self - awww... isn't that cute? We used to believe in God. How silly and irrational we were.

The good times couldn't last, though. At some point, about two years ago, my mind started revisiting this maddening and provoking issue of "god". Two years later, this issue still falls under the category of Things I Don't Know, and under the sub-category of Things I Don't Know That Make Me Crazy. I do believe in some thing. I don't know what form this being takes. Is it Love? Is it Nature? Is it Us?

Without having an answer to those questions, I've managed to configure a spiritual practice that is both refreshing and satisfying. No small feat given where I've come from. My daily meditations are a type of prayer, I suppose, though they resemble in no way the prayers of my childhood. A few months ago I caught myself praying a familiar prayer. I was on a plane - it was my birthday - and I was saying, "please don't let me die in a plane crash on my birthday, please don't let me die in a plane crash on my birthday ...". It was unexpected, though not surprising, as by that time I had already determined that the prayers of my past were all about making me feel better. I knew God wasn't going to keep my plane aloft just because I asked him to. Surely the prayers of the people suffering from hunger and war and poverty were more urgent than mine. But I prayed then because it made me feel safe - the act of praying was a ritual in which I found comfort, if not the prayer itself.

So, to answer my own question - I think prayer serves the purpose of consoling us. It is easier to ask an all-knowing and powerful being for help than it is to ask ourselves and to tap into and to trust our own power. This is what I think. I, of course, don't know.

What do you think, dear readers? What is the purpose of prayer, and why do people do it?

The Dalai Lama says ...

A few years ago, when I was first discovering and investigating Buddhism, I read several books about and by His Holiness the Dalai Lama. Much to the chagrin of, I assume, everyone I spoke to, I started beginning every other sentence with, "the Dalai Lama says ....". It became a bit of a joke among my friends. The subject didn't matter - we could have been discussing toupees or politics, or cheese. In my mind, the Dalai Lama had said something that somehow applied. What can I say? It was the beginning stages of love. Anything and everything he said was wonderful and amazing. Some time has passed now, and while I still occasionally whip out a "the Dalai Lama says ...", they are fewer and farther between.

The Dalai Lama was in NYC last week for several days of teaching. His talk on Sunday was about Peace (the inner kind) and Prosperity (the non-material kind). It was my first time in his presence and I was struck by his obvious humility and joy. He emanated both equally. At the end of his talk, his interpreter read him questions that had been emailed in advance of the talk. One of them made reference to how H.H. has said in the past that NYC is a wonderful place to practice compassion, tolerance, patience, etc. due to the many opportunities that present themselves on a daily basis. This person said they were having trouble with those things - what should they do? H.H. reiterated the need for practice, practice, practice and then finally suggested that if NYC was proving itself a difficult place to live, this person should consider moving. After all, "I think America is a big land, no?", he said. Another person asked what we could do to help the situation in Burma. After a brief, almost imperceptible look of pain crossed his face, he told us what he himself had done, but then readdressed the question and answered simply, "I don't know".

Of the many lessons that I will carry with me from this particular Sunday afternoon, the greatest may perhaps be that if the Dalai Lama can say, "I don't know", it's sure as hell okay for me to say and to feel and to sit with not knowing.

And thus, the name of this blog. This is where I will go on, probably endlessly as that is my style, about things that I don't know. It will be obvious to you, gentle readers, that I don't know. Perhaps you will know, and perhaps you will share what you know. That is my hope, though not my expectation, because as the Dalai Lama might say ... there is no blog.