Frida Underground

Wow, with a week containing Solstice, the first day of summer, Father’s Day and a new moon, I am happy to report only one nostril/food-related incident. ‘Twas Saturday last at the illustrious Market and I was in chemical need of caffeine, so I made the journey across the two lane road to the food court. Surveying my options, I noticed a sign advertising a blended iced coffee drink.

Arms outstretched like a robot, I marched toward my favorite vegetable: coffee beans. I was about to order their version of a chilled mocha java when the “barista” jammed a bored index finger into his left nostril up to the second knuckle.

This behavior had its own chilling effect. I stopped in my tracks and stared. He looked at me looking at him, grinned with pride, pulled the strawberry-digger out, appraised his treasure and then proceeded to insert it back into his other nostril.

Suddenly I didn’t want a coffee so bad.

For those of you paying attention to my segues, transitions and content, I have been on an unfortunate wavelength for the past two weeks that has me engaged with nostrils and things either going in (fingers and corks) or coming out (strawberries and boogers). This condition is likely caused my time spent with an active 15-year old relative who is delighted and proud of every one of his body functions.

Logically, since I am grossed out by them and offer plenty of resistance, the Universe is having a good time at my expense, sending more juvenile antics for me to observe. Or perhaps there is another explanation. I am in vibrational alignment with pesky, hormonal teenage energy.

There is plenty of evidence to support this theory. I am often cranky. I cry at commercials and dance shows. I want my way. I am moody, swinging from this branch of emotion to that branch in record time. I am flexible as long as I don’t have to change. I need others to change so that I can feel better. I think everyone’s stupid. I am amazed at how smart and talented everybody else is.

Which is why Groom and I are going underground for the next five days. Okay, well, not exactly underground, just turning off our cell phones, shutting down the computer and attending a five-day, 12-hour a day personal growth seminar. It’s part deux of the one we participated in a couple of months ago.

We had to fill out a fairly extensive questionnaire, answering what we’d like to learn while underground, locked in a room, or whatever they do to help us get at our personal itch. I wrote that I wanted to – oh, did you think I was going to tell you? I wrote that I wanted to stop seeing boys pick their noses.

Not really. I mean I do, but I think the issue is that I’m stuck in a particular chapter of my story and I’m getting bored with it. Here’s an example of somebody else’s behavior to describe my own, which is what the behavior is about. Confusing? Read on.

I know a Malaprop man (when complimenting my decorating style he said, “I like your decorum”) who loves to insert himself into other people’s home improvement projects. He starts all kinds of things, which the person may or may not have requested, and then becomes distracted before he completes them , leaving the project mid-mess only to start another one.

At one point, when he was complaining to me how many disorganized, unfinished projects he had going, I asked why.

He looked at me like I was an idiot and stated, “So I don’t have to deal with my own stuff.”

Oh.

I’m much more like Malaprop Man than I care to admit. Until recently, I believed I was in service, offering help to people in crisis, even though they may or may not have requested it. I thought I could take away their pain. As I hinted last week, people no likey.

This week, I am coming to understand that as I try to squelch their pain, I am unwittingly (and ineffectively) trying to take away their lessons. God and the Universe no likey.

It has also been pointed out to me that I am motivated to take away their pain because I am unaccepting of people as they are. I want to change them. I want them to change so that I can feel better. I am interested in other people’s home improvement projects so that I don’t have to deal with my own stuff. Uh-oh, now, me no likey.

Furthermore, I was guided to understand that I have to discover in myself those feelings and reactions I’m hoping to receive from others, such as approval, appreciation, validation and love.

I am all bass-ackwards. I somehow believed that I would find self-love by getting others to show it to me first as an exchange for siphoning their pain. Sucker.

God’s Minion gave me some excellent feedback, which deserves its place here: Resistance. I have been thinking of that word so much in recent years and I try to immediately transform it into the word fluidity...fluidity.... fluidity. It even rolls more easily off the tongue.

Resistance is the condition that keeps us from being our best self and from seeing the best in others. In the book Lazy Man's Guide To Enlightenment the author says: “What is it that you think needs to be loved?”

Perhaps even, dare I say it, the cutting of a tree (or the picking of a nose)? He says once we can love everything then we are in heaven and he does mean EVERYTHING. Our human condition dictates that we have judgments about as much as we possibly can, as much as we can cram into a day and even keep ourselves awake with at night. The universe is neutral. How comforting, the universe is neutral. No judgment, just response to the frequency being emitted. EMIT LOVE. Wow.

Yes, wow. As I type these last words, a car passed by honking and the driver leaned out the window and yelled, “Yeah, you’re number one, too!”

Cuts Both Ways

Tiddleywinks baby, the human imagination is a two-edged sword. If it’s sharp enough, it can cut your life to shreds, too dull and you’ll bore yourself to death. In fact, I believe many ailments and illments can be credited to the imagination. Not just the famous one, hypochondria, which is medically defined as “imaginary ill health,” but to a host of sneakier symptoms as well.

Let’s not panic here folks, I know the sensations are real. The pain is tangible, the throb palpable, I’m just tossing an idea into the ring that perhaps our imagination has more power and control over our lives than we realize…(I wish I could play really scary, ominous music right here to underscore my point).

If wishes were fishes I could ride a horse - wait a minute, how does that Grandfatherly wisdom go? Since I’m wishing a lot right now, I wish I could tell this next story and not make myself look like such a dork. Last week, I bared my soul to you about baring my soul to the seminar group. It all had a happy ending. I left Sunday evening full of hope and spring renewal, having lowered my shield to bond with 50 new people.

In our take-home packets, we were given a list of everybody’s names and contact information and encouraged to stay connected. Peace, love and Kumbaya, Batman, the facilitator did not need to encourage me, for I was ready, willing and able to reach out. I was free, Hallelujah!

When I arrived back at the homestead Sunday evening at the conclusion of the four day intensive, I checked my emails. Something resembling an hour had passed since the group said goodbye, so I really didn’t expect to hear from anybody that soon.

Companion and I took a walk in the waning sun and a neighbor inquired what on earth we’d been up to as we looked “so happy, content, tuned-in and appearing to have more than beans for dinner.” We graciously smiled and thanked her, oohed and aahed over her multi-colored tulips and were invited to participate in a spontaneous celebration of watering with her inaugural rain barrel collection. Eco-friendly, living green, you know, sustainability.

Well, we thought, this experience is already paying off as a neighbor can clearly see how energized we are and we giggled inwardly as a pot of beans simmered on the stove for our supper.

After a deep and sensual night’s sleep, we awoke refreshed and excited to start our day. I checked the emails. When names from the seminar failed to fill our “in box,” I told myself it was too early to hear from anybody and that most of the participants had to return to the “real world” and get straight back to work.

We nurtured ourselves all that day, basking in the afterglow, and on Tuesday, when I still hadn’t heard from anybody, I shrugged it off and reminded myself that many of them lived in other towns and probably hadn’t even made it home yet.

Wednesday, I had to soothe myself a little more. Work, kids, laundry, playing catch-up… I listed a few tasks that might prevent me from contacting new people right away.

By Thursday, the more mature aspect of my personality asked why I hadn’t reached out to anybody yet? After all, I have no children, no corporate job, no mountains of laundry or travel to recoup from. “Because I want them to contact me first,” replied the stubborn, bruised squishy part. “That will make it more special and meaningful.”

The developed voice prodded me further, coaxing me to step an inch out of my discomfort zone, “But if everybody felt that way, nobody would stay connected.” Seeing the value in that logic I agreed, “Fine! I’ll do it.”

In a mood swinging between petulant and insightful, I hunted and gathered 50 cards. One participant had expressed a latent dream to be a rock star, so I found a card that, can you believe this, had rock star boots on the cover? Another wore a lot of faux animal print, so I found a card with a border of leopard print around its edges. I recalled little details about each person and bought stickers that applied. Another woman who had emerged from her cocoon to become a butterfly, well, you get the idea.

Together, with Companion, we divvied up the cards and wrote a note to each person. Then we walked to the Post Office, purchased stamps (50 X .42 = $21.00 just in case you’re curious), and mailed them. That evening, I received my first call from someone in the group. No, she had not had time to receive our card; she took the initiative and I was happy for it.

Until…

Her first question. She asked if I was on Facebook and excitedly told me how she had connected with a bunch of people from the seminar already. Frown. A puff of grey smoke out my ears, sagging shoulders.

Continuing to check the stupid computer, I had to wait until the next Monday to receive our first “thanks for the card” email. In the header, I noticed a bunch of other names listed from our group. A few more notes trickled in and the same thing - I could tell that many people had already written to each other via the internet and not only was I not a part of that, but only a few people responded to our hand-written, decorated and personally licked stamped cards.

&^$#*%(&@!

The pain was soooo deep. Fine, if I’d been hidden away beneath my armor and nobody responded, eat a dookey. But for heaven’s sake, I revealed myself. People stood in the lobby afterwards, waiting in line to talk to ME! They held my hands, asked if we could stay in touch, asked if we could get together afterwards, told me they thought I would be a fun person to hang out with, ETCETERA fricking Etcetera.

I had been on a natural high. If I had revealed myself that much and they liked me, a la Sally Fields, really liked me, then why were they not following up on ideas that they had introduced? It sucks big smelly rotten hairy toad eggs to throw down one’s shield and then be rejected. Why do you suppose I crafted my armor in the first place, huh? Rejection hurts. Duh.

As Brande Roderick (a blonde playboy bunny on Celebrity Apprentice) said in defense of using her beauty over her brains, she “forgooed.” I’m still laughing as I type this. You don’t need to know the end of that sentence or get caught up in the goofy speculation whether I actually watch the show to appreciate the spectacular use of the American language. Is “forgooed” the past tense of foregone?

I was waxing about rejection. Was that the foregone conclusion, the only outcome? Well, I forgooed it as such. What else could it be?

Complaining and forgooing to Sister, she asked me an excellent question that stopped me in my tracks. How many people did I actually want to spend time with from that group? As my word count on this week’s entry climbs higher, I must condense the conversation to its essential point. I observed a radical gap between what I truly desired and what my imagination said I should have.

One day, an acquaintance of mine was lamenting over the phone that she was so popular she was forced to turn down social invitations and although she was sorry, we would have to postpone our date to fit more people in. I’m glad we were not in person, because as she droned on, I used several creative facial and hand gestures to quietly express my distaste for her demeanor and approach. I felt ookey after our conversation and a little sour toward the reshuffling. And here’s the weird part. Even though I mocked her to Companion, telling him I was just toooo popular to dine with him that evening, something inside me wanted to be like her. What the-?

I suddenly wanted to be popular enough to have more social engagements than I could handle. If she was, then I needed to be. (I warned you I was going to come out of this looking Dorky!).

Sister’s question forced me to look at what I really preferred instead of some imaginary goal to keep up with the Smith-Joneses. I realized that my imagination had cleverly set up a requirement that all 50 people must contact me to prove that I had truly been a success. In reality, I liked several enough to stay connected, but what on earth would I do if 50 new people suddenly expected something from me???

I laughed with Sister, telling her that I had already received a few cards in the mail and some more emails and had been invited to various places with the people I really liked. I hadn’t been focusing on the ones that clicked, but instead, pouting over the ones who hadn’t reached out.

Last Saturday, a couple more people stopped by our booth at the Market to say hello, and, not being able to help myself, I asked (trying to assume an air of casual inquiry), “So have you heard from all the people in our group yet?” They laughed and said No, that they had heard from one or two, but had been so involved with getting back to work, dealing with loss and whatsuch that they hadn’t been able to think about anything else but what was on their plates.

I recalled other bits of information. Not everybody who attended the seminar was there for personal enlightenment. Some were barely hanging on, some were going through nasty divorces, some had lost children, some were having major health crises, and some were just plain lost, looking for a lifeline out of the depression.

Not everybody attended with their partner. Not everybody had a partner. One woman was homeless, carless and jobless. Not everybody was happy with their lives and simply looking for a tune-up. Some were trying to stay sober.

I understand why it’s called a punch line, because the lesson punched me in the gut. Question: If I am blessed with so much, why am I allowing my imagination to dictate an order to collect responses from people as proof that I’m valid? Some of these folks don’t have the ink to stamp their own papers, so why did I set up a fail-fail system where I need to get something from people who don’t have it to give? What kind of pathology is that?

If the pattern of writing this blog stays true to form, I expect I’ll discover an answer this week. Uh-oh, do I need to fasten my seatbelt?