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? ...