Everything I ever needed to know about meditating...

...I'm learning from a cat.

I have tried and tried and tried to meditate. Calm the mind, center myself, DON'T fall asleep, be still, don't fall asleep, think of absolutely nothing, don't fall asleep. I can't sleep at night, but get me to try meditating and I'm out like a light. If you suggest to me that I meditate in bed to try and trick myself into falling asleep, it doesn't work. I've tried. Basically, my attempts to meditate, while full of effort and hope, are typically quite unsuccessful.

However, about a week ago, I was watching my cat sitting in her cat bed. SHE appeared to be meditating. I was actually kind of jealous. I watched as something caught her eye and she looked around for a bit, then back to just sort of gazing lazily around the room, and subsequently back to staring at nothing but somehow completely present, aware, conscious, blissful and just plain old being. She seemed to be the exact representation of the definition of my recent tattoo. I stared at her for quite a long time, at first trying to figure it out, trying to figure her out. What is she thinking? IS she thinking? Is there just a whole lot of nothing going on in there? She must be thinking something, Christ! What is it?

Then I just stopped trying to figure anything out and decided to simply 'be' there, just like this very zen-like feline sitting in front of me. I laid very still and merely observed. For the first time in what seemed like forever, my own mind stopped spinning wildly with its random, scattered, uncontrollable thoughts. I wasn't worried about tomorrow, pissed about yesterday, unnerved about today. I was simply here. I watched her ears move to the direction in which she heard a very faint noise. I heard it too. I began to hear a lot of things that I don't think I would normally hear because my mind is too busy being busy. They were insignificant noises…but then again, maybe they weren't. They were noises that were happening as part of the day, in that moment of time, that are just as significant as any other, only this time I was wholly aware of this reality.

My cat just taught me how to be present. Be where I am. And accept it.

I'd recently read a book called The Power of Now and had earmarked a number of pages to go back to re-read at a later time for better understanding. When I finally came out of my closest-thing-to-mediation-I've-ever-realized, I went over and picked up the book without any specific intent, maybe just to browse through some of those pages again. I casually opened the book to a random earmarked page and the first thing I saw was the bold lettering of a paragraph header that read:

Wherever you are, be there totally.

Funny, I read it a month ago, but it didn't actually sink in until I was staring at a cat.

Continuing on my journey of meditative discovery, just the other day I was visiting a friend who had gotten a new kitten a few months ago, a very cute one I might add. Of course there's a huge difference between a 13 year old, fat, sleepy cat and a teeny, bouncy, playful, ball of energy kitten but my newfound ability to practice my meditation seemed not to discriminate. It was late in the day and everyone was retiring for the evening. Kitty had some energy stored up, after all, he'd just taken a much needed nap on my stomach a few minutes earlier. I twirled one of his cat toys around the kitchen and he chased it…relentlessly. I, of course, wouldn't dream of having anything to do with his dissatisfaction, so I didn't dare stop until he decided he didn't want to play anymore. Kittens can play for a long time without getting tired, I've forgotten this. He jumped again and again as I twirled and looped the string around and around. Accidentally, I sort of just zoned out…once again, not thinking about anything except that present moment. I was not me, I just was. Nothing and everything existed right there in the middle of that dimly lit kitchen. For several moments, I felt full of peace and ease and stillness, even though the whole while, kitty pounced and jumped and ran all around me. Strangely, it was actually because he was doing this, that I was discovering this long absent feeling of serenity.

My 'meditation' was interrupted by my friend walking into the kitchen. Not surprisingly, the kitty's concentration on the string was not at all diverted. Oddly, after waking from my spell, all the thoughts that did pop back into my head were so unmistakably clear. I had a thousand things that I wanted to say right then, things that finally made sense after what seemed like hundreds of years of muddled confusion. Things I wasn't sure how to say before, but now they just seemed so simple. I was so surprised though by my unexpected stream of consciousness, that I said -- nothing. I just sat there with my mouth open and eventually managed to eek out a smile to my friend who stood there, probably thinking I was just WAY too into playing with his cat.

I've since tried to meditate on my own, without the help of a feline and while I'm still having a hard time with that speed racer mind of mine, I'm finding I can be much more present and appreciative of the moment at least, which is a good start anyway. Whenever I do need help, I guess it's nice that I don't have to look far to find one of the furry Buddhas lying around this place who can help me to s l o w the heck down and continue to remind me how to be here now.

Bjork is Bjeautiful

I see who you are
Behind the skin
And the muscles

I see who you are, now
And when you get older later

I will see the same girl
The same soul
Lioness, fireheart
Passionate lover

And afterwards
Later this century
When you and I have become corpses

Let's celebrate now all this flesh on our bones
Let me push you up against me tightly
And enjoy every bit of you

I see who you are


Bjork - "I See Who You Are"

Say my name, say my name

It has been said time and again that humans love to hear the sound of their own name. Every single time you hear your own name spoken aloud, aside from the cerebral aspect of your brain activity notably increasing, it is a tiny confirmation that you exist. You are real, you matter, you are recognized, accepted, loved, missed. You belong in and to this giant universe and somehow you are relevant because you've been given your very own identity to be so.

We long to matter.

We long to be significant (even if only to one person, ever).

There is a scene in the movie "Shall We Dance" (I haven't seen the whole film, but) the speech that Susan Sarandon's character gives is quite lovely:

"We need a witness to our lives. There's a billion people on the planet... I mean, what does any one life really mean? But in a marriage, you're promising to care about everything. The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things... all of it, all of the time, every day. You're saying, 'Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go un-witnessed because I will be your witness'. "

We also seem to long for a witness.

To witness what, though?

It seems it's not so much the big events in our lives as the little, seemingly insignificant ones from which we draw our sense of belonging. And honestly, how many big events are there, really? Is it not the thousands of lesser moments that do just as much to shape our life into being? It is small moments such as these for which we seek even the tiniest bit acknowledgement or recognition.

Go out and visit or call someone you really care about today. First, don't ever assume that they know anything about how you feel about them. And even if you're not the most openly mushy or complimentary person in the world, just say their name...remind them that they are real and that you're happy they exist.

Ancient Chinese Secret

I was leaving a friend's house the other morning and decided to detour into Chinatown on my way back home to find myself an herbalist and have him mix me up a little remedy. While I feel I cleansed myself physically and mentally while in Hawaii, I just couldn't help but think that I might benefit from a nice concoction made from some leaves and twigs and random indigenous Chinese shrubbery.

I walked into the first place whose sign I could actually read. "Herbs". Sounds like a good start. I looked around as I made my way to the pharmacist-looking lady behind the counter. I noticed some interesting items available for purchase in this "herbs" store. Scary looking mushrooms, scary looking dried out fish that still had their heads but their eyeballs were poked out. As I rounded the corner of one glass case, I saw a plastic bin full of very crispy...seahorses. This made me sad, I really like seahorses. Of all the oddities inhabiting the alien world I call 'the ocean', I deem seahorses as one of the most peculiar looking creatures and quite possibly my favorite. There was no turning back now though, I wasn't leaving this place without a bag full of creepy stuff.

The pharmacist pointed me in the direction of the herbalist, he talked to me for a few minutes in something that resembled English. He made me stick out my tongue or at least that's what I think he said. He looked at me funny, this may have been because he noticed something strange with the condition of my tongue or because he had no idea what this seemingly nice Caucasian girl was doing. He wrote out my "prescription" with a bunch of Chinese characters and I prayed that none of them said "eye of newt" or "crunchy, dried-up seahorse". As I handed the paper over to the pharmacist, I watched her carefully as she opened her apothecary drawers and weighed out each ingredient for the 'tea' I was later going to brew at home. I didn't see any horse heads going into the bags, so I was somewhat relieved. I did however realize that I wasn't quite sure what a newt even is, so how would I know if it's eye were in my bag. How big is a newt? What do you suppose its eye tastes like? And is brewing this mixture going to require the use of a cauldron? I do not own one of these.

I couldn't help but think that as they smiled at me and said have a nice day, that they were really thinking, "Sucker!" But, hey what did I have to lose? And how bad could it really be? During my stay in Peru, I ate alpaca and alligator and jungle rat and ants for God's sake! Not to mention drinking that horrid Ayahuasca. This was going to be a piece of cake.

A piece of bitter, nasty, smelly, putrid cake to be precise. I was afraid to look too closely at the bits and pieces that I poured into the pot. A pot that I'm now fairly sure I will never use again, by the way. If I had already convinced myself that there were no equine looking animals in my medicine, then I'd rather just keep thinking that and not inspect anything too closely until it was boiled into a state of completely unrecognizable. So the tea tastes like shit. And I have to drink it twice a day. I gag just thinking about it because it has a similar taste to the Ayahuasca. Not quite as bitter or lingering, thankfully, but still bad enough to make my heart start palpitating when I even think about dosing myself. I've only drank it for 6 days, I have about 4 more to go. Unless, of course, it is decided - presumably when I think I am being asked to stick my tongue out again – that I should take home an additional potion, or a different one for that matter. I am willing to accept this "challenge", just quietly hoping that I don't have to consume anything that once had a face. We'll see.

I'm Halfway Home

This Wednesday was our official halfway point. It has also been my darkest thus far. I have cried and struggled with my mind, my emotions, my physical strength (or lack there of), my uterus (I'm sure some ladies out there can sympathize with the tiredness and unbearable pain that graces us once a month. Try dealing with it through 990 minutes of yoga in a week.) I have prayed for death several times with the utmost sincerity. Bikram often says something like "Don't worry, you're not going to die. You're not so lucky to die so soon." I challenge that statement. He also says if you die doing yoga you go straight to heaven. We'll see.

They've turned up the heat in the room and people are dropping like flies. It's almost funny. I said almost. It's like a giant game of Whack-a-Mole, one second someone is standing there, the next second...they're gone. I've been one of them…I've had to sit down quite often in the last few days, I'm not sure I have the words to explain what exactly happens while I lose my mind. Fatigue takes over, my brain feels like it's yanked itself out of my head - through my ear - and is crawling toward the nearest exit to get a single breath of air and I just sit there and watch it like a bad acid trip because I'm too exhausted to do anything else. The scary thing is, I've felt pretty good and have been taking care to eat and drink well, and I'm a pretty healthy person. I'm blaming the extra difficulty in coping on Aunt Flo's bad timing. Back home, when I was feeling the effects of PMS, I simply wouldn't go to class, because that was the logical, intelligent choice. Here, there is no choice. You go to class. Period. Pardon the horrible pun. You have a sucky class, but you go to class nonetheless. You also do not leave the room. Even if you have to lay down on your mat the whole time because you just don't have the strength, you lay there, sweating, crying, cursing, wimpering. You don't leave the room. (Two acceptable excuses for leaving the room: puking and pooping.)

I suffered the effects of loss of minerals and/or dehydration this morning (Thursday), my body began cramping up in the middle of the night. My feet, my calves, the muscles around my ribs and torso. Every time I moved, another cramp would try to paralyze me. I didn't sleep a wink. I decided in the morning that I didn't want to end up in the hospital, so I chose to speak to one of the instructors and we decided that I would not attend the morning class. Sometimes you just have to heed the red flags that go up. Another woman in our class was taken to the hospital earlier in the week for dehydration, she stays in the room next to ours, I wasn't around when the ambulance came to get her, but my roommate said it was pretty gnarly…she was severely cramped up from head to toe, almost unable to function. It was because of her that I paid a little more attention to my own symptoms and decided to err on the side of caution.

By next week, the heat is supposed to be near unbearable temperature, I hope that I am back to full strength before then. I pray.

Physically and mentally, this is the most difficult thing I've ever done. Some people seemed to be less fazed by it, some more. There is quite a variety of roller coasters rides here at the torture chamber, with only one theme in common – you have no fucking clue which one you've just sat your ass down on. It might be bumper cars, it might be spinning tea cups or it might be that one that flips you around and loop-d-loop, while you're sitting upside down and backwards and doesn't stop until you throw up at least four times.

I thought I could do anything after I jumped out of an airplane a few months ago. After I get through this, I will be able to reclaim that statement for real.

I've noticed more and more over this past week that people are starting to miss/crave human contact. Although we are just inches away from each of our 305 other classmates (yes, we lost a few) most of the day, many of us are away from loved ones, husbands, wives, kids, cats and are missing healing and compassionate human touch. This week in our final savasana it wasn't a surprise at all that you would be laying there with your eyes closed and the person next to you would just grab your hand and hold it. It happened to me twice and I initiated it once. Our posture clinics are becoming a triage of sorts, sorting victims, providing the necessary attention – foot and hand massages – to relieve the cramping and soreness and pain. And just to feel someone's empathetic hands on your pathetic feeling body.

Although this is our halfway point, week six is supposed to be the pinnacle of this whole training…I can't even think about it right now. I've found myself saying things like "one day at a time"…12 step program.

This Sunday brings a well deserved break, scuba diving and surfing…and not one single thought about yoga. Right.


(By the way, if you ever find yourself in New York, go to John Salvatore's Bikram yoga class. Even if you hate yoga and you never plan on doing it again…it is worth the experience to be in the same room as this man. He is by far the most hilarious person I have ever had the pleasure of meeting and such an incredible teacher.)

Bootcamp for the Soul

I was prepared for the physical nature of this yogic exploration, but the exposure and wringing out – literally and figuratively - of the deepest, darkest places in my soul have been somewhat unexpected, at least in their intensity.

Week 3 was too busy to write, I jotted a few notes of things I wanted to say at a later time, when I actually HAD time and the next thing I knew the week was over. Time is going very quickly as we are kept extremely busy. The days all blend together in a Ground Hog Day kind of sense, you can't help but laugh at the monotony of some of it. Get up, do yoga, eat, do posture clinic, do yoga again, eat, do more posture clinic, sleep. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. I can't remember whom I spoke with on which day, whom I've met before and whom I haven't (all of us still don't even know each other and aren't entirely sure when we pass someone smiling at us on the street, if it's because they are in our class or if they're just friendly).

Things I've noticed in the last couple of weeks:

Some women are completely clueless to the fact that the very short shorts they wear during practice, shows a little more of their anatomy then they might prefer to reveal. I have seen so much pussy in the last 4 weeks, I don't even know what to say. (A note to guys who want a cheap thrill, take a Bikram yoga class.)

There are so many people who haven't a clue what the words respect and discipline mean. It's sad. And frustrating. But, I don't have patience, so I guess this is my path to learning it by dealing with some of the ill-mannered, undisciplined people in this class.

I'm having really crazy, extremely vivid dreams every night. They tend to be completely nonsensical by the time I'm conscious and am thinking back on them, but during my slumber, they seem so real and practically 3-dimensional. The only other times I've had dreams this dramatic is when I've been experimenting in the expansion of my mind by alternative and/or commonly prohibited means. This yoga is a trip.

I run the risk of sounding like I've gone completely schizophrenic, but I'll say it anyway, just the other night as I was dozing off, I swear to God, I heard a voice, as clear as day, shout out my name with such exclamation it was as though they had been looking for me for days or weeks even and finally just bumped into me on the street unexpectedly. Only this street was some astral plane somewhere in the cosmos. I hesitate to say I heard it inside my head, because that does sound crazy and it's not at all what it felt like, it was just there in my altered state of consciousness. I was so surprised by it that I feel I was jarred from that place or space, so unfortunately I didn't hear anything else. But, with as tripped-out as I've been feeling lately, hopefully I'll manage to have another astral encounter again soon. Have I already mentioned that this yoga is a trip?

I've become hooked on the coconut ice cream at a local ice cream shop. They open at 6:30 am and close at 11:00, this is great news for me and my schedule.

There was finally a memorial for Don Ho, I didn't go, but I heard it was nice.

I just learned that box jellyfish infest the shores about 7 days after a full moon, leading warnings to be posted for the beach bound. I still have not found out why they do so, but I find it quite fascinating nonetheless because apparently you can set a watch to their timeliness. Weird.

Quieting the mind is one of the most difficult tasks to accomplish. I am a wanderer. During yoga, mostly because we're doing it so damn much of it, I find myself thinking about an array of different things. Food, the ocean, whose fart it is that's stinking up the room and what the hell they could have possibly eaten for dinner, music, sex. Sex is a pretty dominant thought on the wandering days. Well, I'll be honest, sex is a dominant thought most days for me, yoga or no yoga. I consider myself to be a very sexual person. I like it and I'm not going to pretend I don't. I'm not slutty, not just anyone gets invited in to my personal space. Why I'm thinking about it so much here, who knows, maybe it's because it's been so long, maybe it's because I'm constantly twisting and turning myself into funny little positions that make me think back to earlier, enjoyable times when I was doing kind of the same stuff … only naked … except maybe for a pair of knee socks, just for fun.

Sigh.

But back to quieting the mind. It is said that humans have anywhere from 12,000 to 50,000 thoughts per day. No wonder it's hard to quiet that shit down. Not to be misunderstood, I like my thoughts, but boy is it hard to shut them off when you just want a little moment, even 20 seconds in Savasana, of silence. Nothingness. Peace. Calm. I never realized how much I drift, until I tried not to think for 20 solid seconds. They often say that Savasana is the hardest posture, because humans tend to find such difficulty in attempting to still not only their body during those short moments, but also their mind.

My body is getting so stiff that my postures are getting worse. This was to be expected, but it's still frustrating. Many of us are worse than beginning students right now since our hamstrings seem to have turned into concrete blocks and our flexibility has become non-existent. My arms feel like they are going to snap off at the shoulders during half moon pose and I'll be left standing there like the Venus de Milo in hot pants. From what I understand, there is no breakthrough point during the training, pretty much everyone's practice is going to continue to suck until the end of the 9 weeks and only after we leave and begin to conduct our practice in a more normal manner do we see the progress we've actually made. This I cannot wait to see.

There are so many more things to write, but as usual, my mind is beginning to wander and I'm feeling quite lethargic today – today's class was the first one in which I wasn't bouncing off the walls afterward – so I'm off to an astral plane to quiet my mind, maybe collide with some cosmic mind and have some mind blowing sex since I can't get it any other way right now. (Aside from drugs, alcohol and cigarettes being forbidden during this time, sex is a no-no as well.)

Sigh.

We are all millionaires

It's the end of week two (of nine) Bikram Teacher Training and it's as though the first seven days didn't even exist since they were so different, so far away from the changes that have already presented themselves in days eight through fourteen.

My body is experiencing some serious pain. The pain likes to travel, go figure, just like me. My horrible knees from 6 years of basketball are strengthening, but of course they are letting me know how much they dislike the process. Today, however, I was able to do standing head to knee, full on, the entire posture, beginning to end. (I haven't been able to do it once since I got to Hawaii for some reason.) My right hip hurts so badly that it is keeping me from doing triangle, which is frustrating the hell out of me, because although there are many in this class of 311 people who sit out of more than a few postures, I don't want that to be me. But, I've had to tell my foolishly stubborn side to take it easy and let myself heal before really fucking things up for myself. I somehow seem to forget that I have 7 more weeks of this.

7 weeks. It's funny. During our first 3 days here, many of us felt like we had been here for 3 weeks with all the commotion and adjustments being made. Now, I feel it was just three days ago that I was thinking about how I had 9 weeks ahead of me. Time is a funny thing.

My days have been long, we wake up no later than 7:30 am, go all day, sometimes until midnight or 1 am. We have two breaks in the day that are roughly about 45 minutes to an hour (by the time you get out of the class, up the crowded elevator – or stairs when you're really impatient - and up to your room) in which time you have to shower, eat, wash clothes, prepare for your next class and possibly even start making something to eat for your second break just because you have an extra 6 minutes that day. Anyone who has called me, know that this is why it is damn near impossible for me to talk during the week. Unless of course you are up around 3 or 4 am Pacific Standard Time, in which case I would LOVE to talk as this is about the hour that my insomnia takes over and I would love to hear your beautiful voice.

On the days we plan ahead, which is most days now that we're getting our routine down, a handful of us sprint to the ocean right after our morning class. More students are starting to catch on, what has taken them so long, I have no idea. Maybe because we insist that they are crazy to miss out on such a reward after a tough class. We don't have much time, but as I said, if you've planned well, you can be out there for a good half an hour at least. The salt water is so good for sore muscles and ironically, because of our limited time, we find ourselves even more grateful for every grain of sand we step on along the way, every wave that hits our aching bodies and every drop of sunshine that reminds us that no matter how fucking hard this is, we're in Hawaii. It is so true that you indeed do not appreciate things if they are simply handed over to you. You cherish and value everything much more when you've had to work for it. And if you've had to bust your ass for it…there's no describing how invaluable that thing, whatever it may be, becomes to you.

I can already see physical changes in my body, in just two weeks. I ran my hand across my abdomen while waiting in line, just sort of unconsciously and I didn't even recognize that it was me I was touching. I have the beginnings of what may be growing into a six pack. Another bonus is the fact that I can eat whatever I want. I eat pretty healthy as it is as I've never been a fan of fast food and all that, but I have always been a sweets whore and I justify my cravings for chocolate and cookies and ice cream even more now. I can honestly say that it is pure satisfaction to eat a decadent chocolate mousse cake something-or- another with ice cream and not even think for a moment that it's bad for me. I'm eating an ice cream sandwich as I type this…if you could see my smile you would see it covered in edible, chocolaty sweaters. One sad food note, the imported avocados are $3.50 each. And the locally grown ones are just not as good. I miss California avocados. The best ones I've had back home were the ones I've picked myself. Another testament to the "things are always better when you've had to work for them" philosophy.

I find this whole experience to be strangely parallel to my Ayahuasca adventure last year. Many of us have been drawn to this, as if by some invisible force, many of us started this journey to be healed in some way, be it physically, mentally, emotionally or all of the above. There are people here from all over the world, with many different motivations and life stories. Not at all unlike the very different, yet exactly alike group of strangers I met in Peru. Even the aesthetics of our practice/ceremonial area has similarities. Everyone is to take off their shoes before entering the room. Not only to protect the carpet, but as a sign of respect. We sit on the floor as we listen intently to our Guru, just as we did with our Shaman in the jungle. We never fail to show our gratitude for the gift of his time and knowledge and compassion that he so generously gives to us…(of course we've paid him, but that's besides the point.)

Aside from the physical challenge, which is intense for me, but not totally unbearable – YET - I am being challenged mentally and emotionally as well. I have shed a few tears in class, not big deal it's happened before, and it is expected to happen to many of us. Last night's class was especially emotional for me. As usual, I'm never quite sure why the tears come, but it's such a nice release. I welcome it. The instructors have told us several times that we will hit a wall or some form of 'rock bottom' in the weeks to come – somewhere around week four or five, they say. It's a little disheartening to hear this considering that we all seem to be at a high point currently, feeling sore, but accomplished and positive in our outlook of the near future. It could be likely that next time I write, I will be depressed and beat, angry or frustrated or God only knows what.

Though I've never experienced a 12 step program, I get this feeling like this is the boot camp version of one. As a matter of fact, there are many people here who have openly admitted the horrible addictions they have suffered, and the only reprieve and viable cure they have found is Bikram Yoga. Go figure. I find myself wanting to right all my wrongs, even ones that have long been forgotten, because somehow Bikram makes them resurface (because they never really go away…you hold on to everything, whether you intend to or not. Everything. Coincidentally, I've been told by several instructors that people hold deep-rooted emotional pain in their hips. Funny that my right one is killing me.)

I find I want to say I love you to every single person in my life. Especially those I've neglected to tell recently. And those I haven't talked to in quite some time. I find that I can't wait to truly reconcile the lingering misunderstandings or arguments or just plain old stupid reasons that have made me grow apart from some very special people in my life. And boy, does this make you realize that pretty much every reason is a stupid reason to lose touch with someone you love. And boy, does this make you realize how much you love. And how much you love to love. And how much love you have to give. And the millions of ways there are to give it. And how unbelievably grateful you are to be able to do so. Without even a remote risk of ever running out of it. An endless, eternal supply, at your fingertips, whenever you wish. God, we are all millionaires, to have this something…that costs absolutely nothing…yet is beyond priceless.

I have no idea what the next few weeks have in store for me, but the intensity of the feelings that have grown, re-emerged from somewhere deep down inside, appeared out of nowhere, blown up like fireworks right in front of me are nothing short of mind-blowing. I like having my mind blown. A lot.

Aloha and Maholo

I have been given a few lovely bon voyage gifts by a few lovely human beings and I am just overwhelmed at the generosity and thoughtfulness of my dear friends.

One gift is a book called Ever Wonder? by Kobi Yamada. It is a poignant little book filled with questions meant to…well…make you wonder. I wanted to share some of my favorite ones. If any of them happen to make you wonder, maybe take a moment to really answer them.



When was the last time you did something for the first time?





What do you pack to pursue a dream, what do you leave behind?





When will you ever have more time than you do right now?





What are five things you value most in life?





What is the one thing you think of that always makes you smile?





Can you really be brave if you've only had wonderful things happen to you?





If what's in your dreams wasn't already inside of you, how could you even dream it?





Do you know that you know far more than you know you know?





What good has worrying ever done?





Where do you draw the line between possible and impossible?





How do you want to be remembered?





What makes something beautiful?





Are you the type of person with whom you would like to spend the rest of your life?





Are you making new mistakes, or the same old ones?





If you had five minutes to live, who would you call? And why are you waiting?




Aloha and Mahalo until June 16th, I will miss each and every one of you. I hope to see you when I come back ripped and cut and tanned. Or dead.

Ode to Penny

For anyone who's not old enough to remember, Penny was a claymation character on Pee Wee's Playhouse who had pennies for eyes and would just ramble on and on about random stuff that most of the time didn't really go together or make much sense. This might be why I liked her so much. She also did a PSA spot on drugs. She would say things like:

Hamsters are good.
Pizza is good.
Drugs are bad.

Short and simple, but so sincere as though it was coming from the bottom of her Play-doh filled heart. Unfortunately, her anti-drug campaign apparently had zero effect on me since it's fair to say I've indulged in my share of recreational amusements. Whoever created Penny was probably guilty of placing a few squares on his tongue too, so thanks anyway, Penny. But I always seem to recall her funny little way of saying things. She came up twice this weekend, so this is my ode to Penny. From the bottom of my Play-doh filled heart.

Love is good.
Friends are good.
Fair-weather friends are bad.

Integrity is good.
Sharing is good.
Desire is good.
Insatiable is bad.

Crushes are good.
Vegetables are good.
Feeding the soul is good.
Feeding the ego is bad.

Yoga is good.
Hawaii is good.
Not taking the kitties to Hawaii is bad.

Breakfast is good.
Breakfast in bed is good.
Spilling breakfast in bed is bad.
Clean sheets are good.
Cold pillows are good.
Cold feet are bad.

Hugs are good.
Kisses are good.
Saying goodbye is bad.

Skydiving is good.
Parachutes that open are good.
Parachutes that don't are bad.
Heroes are good.
Winks are good.
Smiles are good.
Frowns are bad.
Laughing is good.
Laughing uncontrollably is good.
Chocolate is good.
Strawberries are good.
Strawberries in your teeth are bad.
An excellent dinner made for you is good.
Great company is good.
Wine is good.
Music is good.
Pictures are good.
Books are good.
Phone calls are good.
Trader Joe's is good.
Recycling is good.
Saying thank you is good.
Walks are good.
Holding hands is good.
Kisses on the forehead are good.
Sleeping in is good.
Spooning is good.
Loving is good.
Being loved is good.
Being good is good.
Forgetting to be grateful for even the teeny things is bad.
Remembering that bad things don't have the power to last very long and that lovely things always live on in your heart is good.

What do the Stock Market and a mattress have in common?

Inspired by a conversation I had this evening with a male friend of mine, I've summed up how women feel about sex and men in three sentences:

Women are sexual creatures, just like men, we love sex, we really do.

We are also, however, instinctively built to be investors of our, let's just call it, time.

In other words, if you don't show promise of future, prospective growth and the best return on my investment, then logically, there is no reason for me to continue contributing my (ahem)…talents.

The difference between being and adult and being a grown up

The day I turned 31, I had an interesting realization. Interesting only for the fact that I had uncovered this consciousness at 31 years of age. On that day, I remember it distinctly, I officially became fully aware of my mortality. It was the first time ever that I truly grasped the fact that one day I was going to die. I'd thought about death before, tried to imagine my own and how it was going to happen. Much like Emma Thompson's character in Stranger than Fiction, as she insists, we all do it. But it was just that, imagination, it didn't feel real. I don't know why it hit me that day, there are probably a number of things that finally came together in just the right way to make me 'get it', but I do know that everything changed in that instant. While I had been an adult for quite some time, choronologically speaking, it was that day in December that I finally felt I had grown up. I remembered thinking, I'm 31 there's no denying shit anymore, there's no pointing fingers or placing blame or stomping my feet and throwing a tantrum when things don't go my way. I have to be accountable for me. I'm not just an adult anymore, I am a grown-up!

I also realized the vast difference between the two.

As an adult, I can:
drive
vote
drink
get married
get a credit card

As a grown up:

I can handle uncomfortable circumstances with tact, decency and maturity. I don't run from awkward situations because I'm afraid of conflict. That's life, that's human interaction…that's what is so beautiful about the fact that we get to mingle with one another in the first place.

I can realize that sometimes things are going to be wonderful and perfect, other times they are not. As a grown-up, I realize that those imperfect times are not my cue to put up my defenses or simply act like I don't care.

I can argue like a grown up. I don't feel the need to be short with someone to avoid the confrontation, I don't feel I have to be unpleasant or mean to them just because we're having a disagreement.

I can hold people accountable for their actions. If you've done something shitty, I'm going to call you out on it. Why shouldn't I? It's how you grow as a person.

I can hold myself accountable for my actions. If I've done something shitty, I know it, so there's no sense in me denying it. And you should call me out on it too. It's how I grow as a person.

I can let go of my ridiculous hypocrisies. Just because you project something on the outside, if you're not sincerely practicing it at home, ALL the time, you're nothing more than a fraud.

I can tell you how I feel and if you don't feel the same, I will not falter and change my mind just to falsely protect myself.

I can have enough love and respect for you to look you in the face and tell you the worst truth rather than the best lie.

The Kingdom of Heaven

From a religious aspect, there are hundreds and hundreds of interpretations of "Heaven". While the, let's call them minor, details of whether the corner of the cosmos reserved for Heaven is flowing with milk and honey or brimming with indescribably beautiful flowers and jeweled trees or 72 naked virgins can be argued or rearranged or misunderstood, the fact that every version seems to share some unmistakably common and extremely pertinent points is quite promising actually. No suffering, no hunger, utter happiness, complete bliss. The list goes on. Oddly enough, even the extreme ends of organized religion have a version of heaven that highlights some form of unity, contentment and peace. But do we really have access to it only after we die? If heaven is so great, then why would we have to spend a lifetime waiting for it?

I saw heaven the other day.

No death or near-death experience required. It was right there, I could touch it and talk to it and even take a picture of it. Why? Because it was distinctly all around me. It was in the gesture of a man who woke up early to make an amazing breakfast for all of his friends. It was in the laughter that danced around the table as everyone gave thanks and then enjoyed a good meal. It was in the smile of a girl who along with sugar and flour, baked a whole lot of love into the cupcakes she had made. It was in the twinkle in his eye when he brought her something sweet because he knows that chocolate is her favorite. It was in the gaze of two people who finally acknowledged a long, unspoken connection. It was everywhere, day and night, in whispers and giggles, in hot cups of tea and bowls of guacamole, in blankets and socks and warm, cozy fires. And it was beautiful.

I watched a group of people care for one another, look out for one another, pick up after one another, applaud one another. Without any motive, without expecting anything in return, yet in my opinion, we all received so much more. It's so unbelievably easy that it's almost hard to conceive, I've realized. Heaven isn't a place we should all be waiting - and dying - to see...I was raised Catholic. (Dying to see if it actually exists.) Heaven exists because we make it. Right here, right now. All of those ideas put forth by religion can so easily be practiced, in a literal and earthly sense, daily. Create, be and nurture whatever your idea of heaven is…here on earth. It's so simple. We've all heard the notions and dreams of what heaven might be like. What about knowing exactly what it's like?

Heaven

noun

1. The expanse of space that seems to be over the earth like a dome.

2. A spiritual state of everlasting communion with God.

3. A place or condition of utmost happiness.

4. The abode of God, the angels, and the spirits of the righteous after death; the place or state of existence of the blessed after the mortal life.

If you ask me, those first three sound pretty close to the place I'm sitting right now. And the 4th one, if there's more of this after I die, bring it on.

Letters arranged into words never spoken

Words gathered together
in a letter
never
sent.


To the one I secretly admire,

I have always thought of myself as an educated and well-spoken human being, yet when you walk into a room, I turn into this perfect, bumbling idiot. I watch you walk in my direction and suddenly I cannot speak. I can't catch my breath when you're standing too close to me sometimes. God forbid any part of you should so much as graze any part of me as you walk passed. It is then I am rendered completely useless.

There are so many things I long to tell you, yet I continue, as I have for more days than I can remember, to shelter my thoughts of you. My cowardice prevails time and again, concealing evidence that I might possess an ounce of courage with which I could reveal even one affection I hold for you.

If I could pretend for a moment that I was unafraid, I would express my respect for your brilliance and your generous nature. If I were brave, I would whisper in your ear that I find you incredibly sexy. And hysterically funny. And admirably kind. I would draw you a picture of your immensely big heart along with a note saying I could never grow tired of just looking at your face.

I think of you. Often.


Gutlessly yours,

Alexis

Happy Valentine's Day...or something.

"Valentine's schmalentines. Bah humbug."

~Alexis Fedorowych



"The world as a whole has forgotten the real meaning of the word love. Love has been so abused and crucified by man that very few people know what true love is. Just as oil is present in every part of the olive, so love permeates every part of creation. But to define love is very difficult, for the same reason that words cannot fully describe the flavor of an orange. You have to taste the fruit to know its flavor. So with love."

~Paramahansa Yogananda

Second Life...

This gives a whole new meaning to the words Virtual Reality. 

Second Life

This might be the craziest thing I have witnessed in my life thus far.  Second Life is a virtual world, similar to the Sims video game, but then again…nothing at all like it!  (By the way, I’m not a video gamer in any way, shape or form, but I know the premise of the Sims games).  Be a character, build a city, theme park, whatever…entertain yourself, work, basically engage yourself in virtual world for however long you feel it necessary to keep yourself away from those 3 dimensional people called...humans. 

Second life, is literally what its name states.  You are creating your own second life in a virtual setting, however just like in the real world, the smarter you are and the more you prosper, the more money you stand to make.  Wait.  You actually make money?  Yes.  The virtual world of Second Life has its own economy – it is based on the Linden dollar.  As Linden dollars are spent, let’s say in your virtual guitar shop, they are exchanged into real American dollars.  You earn money for some virtual character walking his virtual ass into your store and dropping 100,000 Linden’s on a custom guitar.  Let me remind you that this guitar doesn’t even have to actually exist.  Out of curiosity, I checked the website for the exchange rate for today:  L$267/US$1.00

Does anyone else find this absolutely genius and altogether terrifying?

You create a pretend, non-existent, 3-D avatar, buy a pretend, non-existent parcel of virtual land, start a pretend, non-existent business or build a make believe cottage, make an imaginary product or sell a fictional service.  Buy…sell…trade!  In all actuality, these products or services you made up CAN exist for sale in the real world as well, as you retain your Intellectual Property rights over anything you create, but that’s just too much to get into at this late hour and my head already feels like it’s going to explode.  Current enterprising SL residents (of which there are 3,414,980 - in case you were wondering if this was HUGE or not) have founded and currently run such businesses as tattoo artist, wedding planner, private detective, bodyguard, aerospace engineer, hug maker – I had to include that one because it’s just too awesome - and the list goes on and on.  You can literally do or make or sell absolutely anything.  

I don’t know who has time to start and run a business in computer land, as it makes me wonder what they are doing at their real life job, however…there is evidence that some successful business owners “in-world”, as they refer to it, are making thousands of dollars – a day. 

I have no idea where I’ve been, obviously living under a rock somewhere...as I’m just learning about this from a friend of mine at 2:00 in the morning, but it’s been around since 2003 and quite obviously thriving.  And here I thought I was ahead of the game because I had already watched The Secret before it was featured on Oprah today.  :)  So now, not only do I have the demands of thriving in the land of people who breathe, I now have to concern myself with my virtual success in a world where the selling point of the home I’m about to buy is that it was once owned by Lara Croft. 

Oh the pressure, it’s just too much.

There's this one moment...

...in the middle of the night, in a teeny, little place between wake and sleep, that I wish I could stop time. Right there. It's my favorite time. The curtains are drawn, but you can tell it's still dark outside, completely silent. No cars, no creaks, no birds. It's as though God pushed the mute button so that if you happen to stir during this fleeting moment, you can experience actual peace and quiet. I wake here quite often. There are some days I realize and appreciate (and move closer to) the warm body lying next to me in this split second of silence…and I smile in the dark and close my eyes, willing time to stop right there.

But more often than not, it's just me awakening to complete consciousness and becoming slightly bothered by the realization that I have to pee.

Naturally, I muster the energy to get up and shuffle myself to the toilet. For the better part of 7 years, I have lived alone (aside from the cats). For the better part of those 7 years, I have not flushed the toilet in the middle of the night, just because I peed…I am a subscriber to the whole "if it's yellow, let it mellow" theory. Seriously, it's just pee. And if you're a girl, a little bit of toilet paper. No need to waste all that water for an ounce or two of sterile, albeit slightly yellow, liquid to be flushed out of the bowl. Did you know that your pee is sterile? Did you know that soldiers have been known to use urine to clean wounds in times of desperation? The fact is, you're probably spreading more germs by touching the handle TO flush rather than just ignoring the pee in the bowl and running back to bed to try and get the moment back.

But lately, for me, a small dilemma has presented itself. See, there's this cat that has lived with me for 13 years, who has decided, and increasingly so in the last 2 years, that she cannot drink from her cat bowl of water. No. This is not suitable for her. She must drink from the toilet bowl of water. Therefore, she waits, sometimes rather impatiently, for me to…er, finish, then she slips in and watches while the magic bowl serves up what she considers to be suitable and, more importantly, preferable drinking water.

(I've asked a few vets about this peculiar behavior and as it turns out it's not entirely peculiar. Some cats like 'running' water better, no matter that you were running to that same bowl just a few minutes before to relieve yourself. The consensus from the docs has been, either let her drink out of it - or - shut the lid.) Shut the lid. Have you met my cat? This cat does not meow, she waahs. Some friends of mine swear that she also emits a sound that resembles the word 'Mom' being whined by a two year old who is not getting the attention she thinks she deserves. I have shut the lid. I have shut the lid while I've been on the phone with customer service people and they have said to me, on several occasions, something to the effect of, "Ma'am, do you need to put the phone down to get your baby?" They believe there is an infant - CRYING - in the background in my house (not to mention the fact that they think I'm ignoring it). Shutting the lid is not an option. I know now why parents cave to the kid throwing a tantrum at the store. You just want them to shut up. Plus, tantrum or not, this is the cat that plants herself under my arm, resting her head in the same spot a girl might rest her head on the shoulder of a boy she likes…and then purrs me to sleep, every night. She has me totally whipped.

I bought her, especially for her… one of those cat fountains that keeps the water running constantly, as a gesture to keep her happy and frankly, out of the toilet. I think I actually saw her roll her eyes and shake her head when I brought it home.

So back to the dilemma, I have always been a light turner-offer (thanks mom…good habits start young). I don't leave the water running when I brush my teeth, I recycle my bags and bottles. Since I do my part in these other areas, can I just let go of the fact that I have to flush for the sake of quenching the cat's thirst? Do I have to feel guilty about this? I do have those low water yielding toilets in my place, which use about a third of the amount of water in a conventional toilet tank…which is nice, but...


Two part dilemma.

If you're a mellow yellow person and you're at someone else's house and it's the middle of the night when you have to pee…is it acceptable to not flush?

A study in human behavior on The Master Cleanse

This weekend, three of my friends decided to commit themselves to the world famous Master Cleanse, a fast consisting of absolutely zero food and drinking a mixture of water, maple syrup, lemon juice and cayenne pepper. Since they are all residing under one roof, they could easily be each other's support system if any one of them began to have any doubts about their deliberate choice to starve themselves for 10 days straight.

Concoctions were mixed, lemons were juiced, charts were made to log their progress. There were even stars that came in the form of stickers to be displayed proudly under one's name on the log; motivation by public recognition and praise if you drank your sea salt breakfast, some ridiculous number of ounces of your maple syrup punch and took a few healthy poops (or peed out of your butt, whichever came first). This commitment was ON.

As a food-consuming spectator to this fasting folly, I have never in my life witnessed so much hilarity revolving around things that could be eaten. Edible or not. As they rounded the corner of only their sixth hour on the fast, the participants were already daring themselves to imagine what kind of desperation they might face in the days to come and what exactly would constitute 'cheating'. "A pencil…does a pencil count? What if I ate a pencil?" One contender went so far as to stomp on a perfectly good avocado because he knew that if he didn't, he surely would have eaten it.

I spent time with each of the participants throughout the weekend; sometimes one-on-one, sometimes in pairs, sometimes all three of them together. This proved to be positively enlightening in the ways of human behavior. The group conversation, quite predictably and without fail, became about food. Someone could be talking about roof shingles and three seconds later it turned into how awesome it would be to eat a burrito. In the one-on-one conversations, I learned about their favorite foods and the particular cravings they were having at that specific moment. However, the undisputed highlight of my surveillance of these fine creatures, was when I chatted with them in pairs. Any combination of two of them (it didn't matter which two), would result in their immediate suspicion of the 3rd teammate - and soon they would be absolutely convinced that he was somewhere…EATING. Every. single. time.

As it turns out I'm not very good at being supportive, at least not when it comes to starving oneself. When the hunger pangs kicked in and the sincere longing for the ritual and comfort of food was realized, a motherly instinct kicked in and I wanted nothing more than to help my starving friends. When one would teeter on the edge of a breakdown, I wouldn't even try to cheerlead them into sticking to it. I immediately offered up my services as: Accomplice. I offered up spoonfuls of peanut butter when no one was looking. I'd present my arguments on why eating an apple couldn't possibly be considered cheating, it was organic for God's sake! While I was away for a few hours and found that some were resorting to sending me text messages about the unspeakable hunger, I made sure to bring my leftovers back in hopes that I could slip 'em a french fry on the DL. Funny as all of this is, it's pretty intense to see how quickly the body experiences the effects, both physical and habitual, of the absence of food. Their feet dragged with the saddest sound across the floor, one considered locking himself into solitary confinement in his room just to make it through 8 more days, another took to cleaning the kitchen counters…with a toothbrush. Anything to keep his mind occupied.

I left yesterday, I can only imagine the antics that are taking place right now as the saga continues. I'm not getting any text messages, maybe that's a good sign. Or maybe it's just because I'm too far away to be of any help.

I've heard much about this diet over the years though I've never had the motivation to try it myself. But I have seen a few friends try, only to give it up after a day or two. So I sincerely commend them for their effort and pledge to this fast. My only wish is that someone had thought to make a video journal, the raw emotion that comes from three grown men denying themselves even a morsel of food is truly priceless. That and watching how fast they run to the bathroom after drinking their daily 32-ounce dose of salt water. Truly something worth commemorating with moving pictures.

The last 10 minutes...

...of my thought process.

I've decided:

That of all the varieties of apples, I like Fuji ones the best.

That I am positively moving away from LA. It's been great, but I'm done here.

That I love aloe vera juice. At first I thought it had the flavor of what a mild poison might taste like, but now I love it and find myself craving it.

If guacamole isn't spicy, it almost isn't worth eating. I said ALMOST.

If in 6 months, I'm as happy as I am right now in my yoga classes, I'm going into teacher training.

That in 6 months, if it's possible, I want to be as bendy as this one chick in my class. She is un-freaking-believable.

That I have the world's best couch. And my friend that's been crashing on it thinks so too.

That if I really miss rollerskating as much as I say, I need to go very soon.

That I am so happy to no longer be in my twenties. Without a doubt.

That I love this poignant, well executed line from the movie All the Real Girls.
Paul: "I just want to be sure that a million years from now, I can still see you up close and still have things to say."

That true love isn't just about pretty and perfect, it's about ugly and flawed.

It's about old and feeble and gray and wrinkled.

It's knowing that there's no such thing as perfect and that's what makes him perfect.

It's about helping her to the bathroom when she's 80 and still thinking of her as your girlfriend.

It's having the desire and the courage and the devotion to surrender to the entire experience, not just the storybook stuff.

That I am a big chicken shit and I have one thing I really want to say, but I just don't have the guts.

Blood, Sweat and Tears

First and foremost, high fives and a slap on the ass to all the guys in my yoga class. I probably shouldn't be, but I am genuinely surprised to see just how many men practice yoga. There were just as many men in my class tonight as women. I don't know what you do with your junk in some of the poses, but God bless you and I hope you don't hurt yourself.

Speaking of hurting oneself, I kicked my nightstand the other night while I was attempting to climb into my bed. My bed sits unusually high off the ground, making it difficult for one of my cats to jump up on the bed and apparently difficult for me too. I have placed a trunk at the end of my bed for kitty to use as a launch pad, I might need to look into some steps or something for myself. Anyway, it happened so fast I couldn't even process what exactly I had done, although I do know I laughed out loud at how it must have looked. It didn't begin to hurt until like 2 minutes after the fact. And it didn't bleed until my yoga class. Who bleeds in yoga? Me.

The sweat is pretty self explanatory. It's hot in the room, it's hard as f*** doing these poses..there's sweat. And it burns like a mother when it gets in your eyes, kinda makes you look like you might be crying.

Unless you actually are, crying that is. Who cries in yoga? Me. In all my years of on and off yoga binging, this has never happened to me. Tonight was the second time it's happened in just one week and I gotta admit, aside from feeling slightly exposed, I kinda liked it. The therapeutic effects of crying in general cannot even be argued, but this is not like sitting down to watch the movie that never fails to start your waterworks. Or grabbing a box of tissues and some candles for chick night with your favorite heart break, sob CD. After laying down for Savasana, the tears that streamed down my face were unstoppable. There was no mistaking it, I was crying. I have no idea what the hell I was crying about, but man it felt good. So good that oddly enough, I actually look forward to it happening again.

I played sports competitively from the time I was in sixth grade. I have had coaches that were like drill sergeants. I cannot count how many sprints, lunges, laps, push-ups and sit-ups I've done; this is harder to me than all of those combined. Well, I was a lot younger then. Never in my life though, did I think that I would actually pay someone to enthusiastically surrender my blood, my sweat and my tears and love every damn second of it.

Round Two of The Naked Truth

(Ding!)

I found myself in a curious but familiar place recently, which curiously led to getting even more familiar with the anatomy of one stimulating young gentleman. And coincidentally, it was here that round two took place.

(I have to take a moment to clarify the 'how many times' thought process of mine from an earlier blog. It occurred to me that three 'times' was not the most accurate terminology to use, considering that I had made a comment to a trusted confidant a short time ago that certain activities had taken place in the evening as well as in the morning. This, of course, would add up to 2 of the 3 times I had suggested for this extremely precise research I was attempting to conduct. And frankly, I just don't like the way that works out, therefore I amend my terminology to be considered in 'rounds'. A round equaling any consecutive, yet unspecified, amount of time spent under one roof...what happens and how many times it happens in that duration...God bless you. And it still counts as one. I'm allowed to change the rules, it's my experiment.)

And so the observations and interpretations have been logged, in journals that will remain undisclosed. I may talk big sometimes, but when it comes down to it, me and my pajama bottoms are incredibly shy and fiercely private. I know what happened and I'm pretty sure he knows what happened, so there's really no need to expand on the exploits. Well, all right, in technical, laboratory analysis speak - he rocked my world.

As I'm sure it goes without saying, I look forward to a round three, and perhaps by the time it happens, I'll have found a way to justify another modification, maybe just a simple...uh, extension in the parameters of my study in unclothed activities.

Laid....off

The only good thing about unexpectedly losing your job is concluding that shitty day with the unanticipated loss of your pajama bottoms in tangled up sheets. Naturally, with a very hot, very naked guy lying next to you...who knows just what he's doing. Twice.

The Naked Truth - Addendum

It appears I may have offended a member of the Y chromosomed community with my last blog. "So, that's it? Just checkin' out the goods and then off you go." (Mind you, this comment was not from anyone whose 'goods' I checked out. We are just friends. Just so this is clear.)

But my answer is this: Of course not, my dear. All joking aside and despite the light-hearted nature of my yammering, it's about more than a hook up...it always is no matter what we (I) try to tell ourselves (myself).

It's really about second chances at missed opportunities. It's about the possibility that that same anticipation will ultimately express something that's been there all along but somehow wasn't ready to reveal itself until that very moment. It's about maintaining a belief that movie love really does exist and that though you were distracted by something or someone else, the one you had longed for had a longing for you just the same. And all it took was something, anything, a question, a thought, a whisper, a giggle, in that time you took to pay attention to your curiosity to turn your whole world around and here you are all sweaty and naked, wondering why it took you so long to get here.

(Cue cheesy music)

The end.

The Naked Truth

In the few days I have left counting down to my trip to Mexico, I've been doing a lot of thinking. Thinking somewhat forced upon me because of whom it is I'm going to see. While in Peru, I met an interesting fellow who happens to have a notable amount of boyfriend qualities. He is chivalrous and very kind, attentive and affectionate (which every girl loves) without being annoying about it (which every girl loves). He's Latin. Everything they say about them is true. How they can be so innately passionate and get away with saying 'make love' without sounding like the cheesiest bowl of Kraft cheese and macaroni, I will never quite comprehend. If a white bread, American guy EVER said he wanted to make love to me, aside from laughing uncontrollably in his face, it would likely be certain death to our budding relationship or even our budding hook up.

Speaking of hook ups, in light of the aforementioned potential for future relationship development, inevitable girlie conversation has taken place regarding satiating the curiosity of the what-could-have-been, before tying on that chastity belt and taking a walk down Commitment Lane. (And just a note, men may think about sex more often than women, but women undoubtedly talk about it more. I know this much is true.)

And so it was decided that yes, one is indeed warranted a visit to their former (or even current) curiosities, even if simply for curiosity's sake...better now than later, better now than never. Let's be honest, who doesn't wonder what it would be like to bag the crush they've been eyeing for so long. And in my opinion, unresolved, unanswered curiosity can be nothing short of agonizing torture. So why have that...

In addition to the unanimous decision by my lady friends to deem the hook up not only acceptable, but frankly downright necessary, it was decided that in order for this uh...coming together to serve its purpose, it must go down, at the very least, three times.

Why three times, one might wonder. Well, unfortunately, the first time is hardly an accurate or fair gauge for either party, really. I mean, let's face it, first time sex can be amazing, or entirely disastrous. The anticipation of this moment can cloud one's vision as well as one's perceptions as well as one's performance. All this sweaty nakedness has the power to provoke one to call out the names of deities into the darkness, or cause one to ponder what in God's name they're doing there. Even Olympians are given a few chances to achieve their best scores and they're already known to be good at what they do. Besides, if it is fantastic, why the hell wouldn't you want to do it again? Am I right?

Therefore, a second round is a definite must. The pressure is off, the nerves have calmed, neither party can say, "I haven't done this in a while". If by chance it was pretty damn good, but you just didn't get to do that one thing...here's your chance. And, surely a slightly more accurate reading can take place at this juncture.

Lastly and most importantly, for one to conduct scientifically sound research, the third time is most necessary for the sake of calculating...an average...of course.

Ayahuasca in Peru

Ayahuasca - Iquitos, Peru


The trolley drove us an hour and a half outside of Iquitos, Peru to the Blue Morpho Shaman Camp. The look on everyone's face was exactly the same - excitement mixed with scared senseless. A few people chatted to one another, getting to know the person sitting next to them, not realizing how their acquaintance with that person was going to multiply exponentially over the next nine days. The guy standing next to me asked me why I came to Peru and I told him. I won't even dare say it here, yet I spoke, without hesitation, of my hope to obtain a long sought reprieve by participating in an ancient Ayahuasca ceremony. 

Or five ceremonies to be precise.

The camp was breathtaking, lush vegetation, butterflies fluttering everywhere; brick laid paths leading to each bungalow displaying its beautifully hand-thatched roof. No locks on any doors and no windows, only mosquito netting protecting us from the elements. Each bungalow would sleep 6 people, one shower, sans hot water, one toilet and one sink, no doors; a curtain our only form of privacy.

After settling in, 28 strangers gathered for dinner. Along with supper came the continuing curiosity of every person who had found their way to this tour. Everything I'd heard before coming here was repeated in conversation after next as we sat behind checkered tablecloths, trying desperately to predict what tomorrow was really going to be like. "I heard that Ayahuasca doesn't just make you puke, you poop too!" "I heard that you sometimes can't even make it to the bathroom." "Seriously? You shit your pants?" "That's what I heard." "What's your name again? Oh, hi, nice to meet you." This was our 'get acquainted' dinner conversation. If any of us were apprehensive or nervous or downright petrified before, it is only fair to say our fear grew to a horrifying climax by the time our meal had ended.

Before long the light of day began to vanish into the surrounding jungle. Lanterns were lit, one by one, in each room, in every bungalow. Along with no hot water, no electricity. The nightlife began to crescendo into existence. The sounds that came out of the darkness were unreal. Insects zinging like jumping jacks on the Fourth of July. Over-exaggerated drops of water, they came from some bird, I think. One sound was likened to that which a Furby would make or a cartoon cat purring -- mixed with a cartoon zipper. It was my favorite sound; it seemed so lovable and innocent. Turns out the owner of that call was a tarantula. Another favorite was the frogs that sounded like cackling witches. At the time of night when they would begin to laugh, a quiet room full of humans would start to giggle and then eventually laugh hysterically from these contagious little amphibians. They were a welcomed distraction from the fact that we were still scared shitless for tomorrow evening, our first ceremony.

I fell asleep to the jungle concerto, never once having to remind myself that this was the real deal, not a nature sounds CD. I awoke fairly early, but continued to lie in bed for a few more minutes, staring at the ceiling of my heavy-duty mosquito tent. I instinctively checked my appendages for bumps, bites, fang marks, do tarantulas have fangs? I don't know. I seemed to have survived my first night in the jungle. I unzipped myself from my canvas house and made my way toward my group, already hard at work pounding some sort of bark with wooden mallets. As they broke apart the outer bark of the vine, its orangey pulp began to show. This was the main ingredient for our medicinal concoction. Ayahuasca - the sacred vine. I grabbed a mallet and got to work. Four large pots (we're talking witch's cauldron size) sat off to the side, waiting for the Shaman to begin their ritual of offering blessings with mapacho (tobacco) and carefully layering the ayahuasca and numerous other plants, barks and leaves. A large brick stove was then lit, the pots were set in place and there the Ayahuasca would eventually begin to boil. This would continue throughout most of the day. When the mixture was done, our first ceremony would begin. Many of us took turns sitting on surrounding tree stumps, staring at the bubbling pots. No one spoke much, but when they did, it was pretty much the same thing everyone else was thinking. "Am I really going to drink this stuff?"

The Shaman tended to the mixture, stirring it, watching its consistency. They strained it and then boiled it some more. They maintained hours of this painstaking process. Anywhere we walked in the camp, our line of vision somehow always directed us right to these ominous pots. Every time I looked at them, my stomach wrenched, every time I tried not to look, my stomach said, 'Nice try'. Late in the day, as I made my way passed the brick stove once more, I noticed the pots were gone.

The early evening quickly began to descend into the canopy of the jungle and the critters once again took their positions in the ever and over-growing amphitheatre they call home. The travelers began to take shorter, quicker breaths as the realization of this day became inescapable. The round house was lit with just two lanterns. This room typically displayed a bouquet of hammocks for lounging; tonight they were swung up over the beams from which they hung in order to make way for the mattresses that now graced the entire span of the floor.  Each mattress came with a pillow, a blanket, a cup of water, a roll of tissue, and a big, plastic puke bucket.

As I looked around the room, I wondered if I would be the first person in Ayahuasca history to throw up before the ceremony had actually begun. I moved the puke bucket closer to me.

Our master Shaman quietly walked in, scanning the room, acutely aware of every last person's every last thought. His face appeared sympathetic and humored at the same time, by the palpable anxiety in the air. He's been here before, many, many times. The smirk he wore was because he knew some of our uneasiness was insuppressibly magnified by our naïveté. His compassion shown because he knew some of our uneasiness was about to be horribly, painfully justified. As everyone shifted positions on their mattress, attempting to get comfortable, the Shaman and their apprentices initiated the ritualistic commencement of the ceremony. The lanterns still lit, we watched as they poured each cup, singing into each one individually, a personal Icaro, for the person to which the cup was intended. I watched as each person near me received his or her prescribed amount, I counted how many there were before me. And then I counted again. Before long, an apprentice was standing in front of me with a white mug, containing about as much liquid as one measuring cup. I closed my eyes and prayed like I've never prayed before. I opened my eyes, held my breath and then closed my eyes again. I tried to get it down in one big gulp. I almost succeeded. Ayahuasca's taste has been described in countless ways. None of them, in my opinion, came close to describing it accurately. I'm not certain there is a way to describe it accurately. I do know, however, that I quiver even now as I write this. While trying to get the taste out of my throat, I thought to myself, 'It's no wonder people puke from this stuff.'

In about a half an hour's time the entire room had been served. The Shaman lowered the wicks into the lanterns and the light excused itself from the room in a similar manner. They began to shake their leaf rattles, called Shakapas, a sound that could soothe even the most tortured of souls. Simultaneously, they began to sing. The Icaros would continue for an unspecified amount of time, growing louder at times and sometimes waning into a simple whistle by one or two Shaman. They made their way around the room, dedicating time to any person who appeared to need their attention. It wasn't long before the first person started to throw up. It wasn't long after that that pretty much everyone took their turn in front of their bucket. The indescribable taste of the Ayahuasca the second time around can only be described as worse.

My legs, my arms, my head, everything felt very heavy, as though I had melted and had become adhered to my mat. I seemed to have stepped outside of myself, took a look around and then decided to swan dive inside my own mind. Although the Shaman were still sitting at the front of the room, I could hear them singing and whistling so close to me, as though they had abandoned their physical form and were my very own personal headphones, inside my head. At first geometric shapes, like when you press your eyeballs a little too hard, were floating behind my eyelids. Then colorful landscapes, referred to as vistas, began to take shape. Waterfalls and rainbows, flowers, millions of them, would cascade over a constantly moving scene. I could think about anything and everything at once, without feeling confused or overwhelmed. My thoughts were complete and it was impossible to get distracted by uncertainty or insecurity. An unbelievable sense of gratefulness came over me. At one point, it was as though I was able to account for every single person in my life and know that they had crossed paths with mine for a reason. I could understand the issues in my life that just a few hours ago were undeniably problematic. I was in a place free from fear or judgment. A sense of contentment came over me that was truly authentic.

At times throughout the ceremony, I was aware of others in the room, sometimes it was impossible to avoid being aware. Some wailed and cried and moaned to a heartbreaking degree, others purged relentlessly. Others yet would call out to our Shaman for help, and he would go, be it physically or spiritually, to help them through their difficult moments. Linear time and space are typically lost during these sessions, Shaman are believed to be in multiple places at once, because they are needed in multiple places at once. On one occasion, I knew I heard him standing next to me, when I mustered up the energy to open my eyes, his shadowy figure was sitting in his chair, right where he had probably been sitting for quite some time. Or perhaps not.

At one point I decided to try to focus on one very specific event in my life. The real reason I came to the Shaman in the first place. Although I was aware of the situation in my mind, I could not feel about it the way I have felt for the last 8 years, not to mention, the way I had intended to feel about it this night. I wanted to cry and scream to get it all out, once and for all. It simply was not possible. The Shaman tell you time and again, that your experience with Ayahuasca will not be what you want, but what you need. It will be nothing like what you expect and quite possibly nothing like what you had hoped. I came in expecting a nightmare. I came out cleansed of my enormous guilt, relieved of my life sentence of regret. Yet, strangely, I cannot explain how it happened. It just did. All of the horrible feelings I had harbored for so many years, every minute of every day, were just gone. Disappeared into thin air.

The Shaman also tell you that no two ceremonies will ever be the same. We had four more to go. This was only the beginning.

You make me feel like I belong under the sun*

In the last month, three different people not related to me by anything other than friendship or acquaintanceship , told me that they were proud of me. All for different reasons, which made it even more special to hear.

I'm not sure if I can put into words how awesome it has made me feel. I am grateful for you just thinking of me, let alone with such handsome regard.



*Lyric courtesy of Citizen Cope

Where's My Oscar?

And 20 million dollar paycheck?

I have unwittingly become an actress. When did this happen? Why did this happen? More over, HOW did this happen? And why am I not getting paid for it?

Yes, I live in Los Angeles, L.A., La la land...where you and your miniature breed dog can become a celebrity, a household name, a spokesperson, a joke and an E! True Hollywood Story in just one week's time. If you're lucky. And you don't even have to be a good actor.

I mind my own business, I don't have a cute, little dog that wears a shirt stating, "Bitches love me." Although, if I did, he probably might, but I digress. I tell people when I like them, I tell people when I love them. I have nothing to hide. Well, up until lately. It seems more often these days I have to hide the way I feel about certain situations. Usually in an attempt to just keep the peace, or take the high road or to be "gracious", but not a genuine gracious, of course. It's all an act. Smile ever so kindly and/or say thank you so that you can save face...the other person's face.

I'm sick of it. I'm sick of making situations comfortable, when they clearly are not. Do you think it's pleasant for me to receive your obviously regifted gift? No, it's not. It's SO uncomfortable, as a matter of fact, it makes me want to jump out of my own skin. But, to help YOU avoid feeling stupid, I will play dumb. I smile and say thank you so very much for your thoughtfulness. And as I walk away, I wonder why I felt the need to deny my feelings and spare yours. When did it become not okay to say what's really on my mind? Because it's a shitty thing to do? Well, guess what? So is regifting!!! You know what sounds fair to me? Returning the 'gesture' with the same sincerity in which it was given. Let's see how that goes.

Or what about the night I ran into a guy that I was spending a significant amount of time with and he happened to be with his on-again girlfriend? I once again tucked my feelings in my pocket and pretended that I was no one of any significance, particularly to him...to spare them both an extremely uncomfortable moment. Neither one of them aware that when I finally got to my car, I broke down and cried.

Why have other people's reputations, feelings, and shitty behavior become my responsibility to uphold? Why do I have to struggle to hold back the tears until I can hide so that no one will know the truly pathetic things that are actually happening? Why am I suddenly an actor whose job it is to conceal or completely dismiss my own feelings, on a regular basis?

Where's my fucking Oscar?

Remote Controlled Expectations

There's a great scene from the movie Singles where Kyra Sedgwick's character gives her garage door opener to this guy she's fallen for, who not surprisingly, ends up being a complete dick and she therefore loses said garage door opener (which of course symbolizes a plethora of sentiments much greater than the worthless piece of plastic itself). As she purchases yet another replacement to fill the remote shaped hole in her heart, she swears aloud that she'll never lose it again.

I lost my garage door opener not long ago. Off it went. I had a feeling it wasn't coming back. I didn't cry over the sad-looking little box that left my life that day, but over the hope that that little button holds each time it is pushed. No matter how tough any man or woman might pretend to be, the truth remains, no one really wants to be alone. The extra remote somehow represents the extra space in your life, not just in your garage.

As some things never change, I still somehow end up at Home Depot just about every other day. I found myself perusing that section a few times. Get yourself a new one and just don't ever lose it again. Then I thought, that's no way to be. It would be a pretty sad existence to never take risks just because of one, or two, or...ten bad experiences. But, chances to be taken or not, I still left the store without my Liftrex Super replacement.

I came home today and picked up my mail and inside a padded envelope I saw an object whose color could only be described as garage-door-opener gray. Out of the envelope, it fell into my hand and for a moment I was sad to see there was no note. Not even a scribble to say something like, "Hi, not long ago I used to kiss you a hundred times a day and now we don't even speak, how are you?"

But even so, I had the hope back in my hands. What's so awesome about this though, is I will forever attribute the loss of that stupid fucking remote to what finally inspired me to do things I'd been wanting to do for years. Things I kept saying I'd do next week or next month and then turned into years, without accomplishment. This August, I will travel to another country. By myself. And this Wednesday, I begin my lessons with my Spanish tutor. FINALLY. And so I thank you, former apple of my eye, for saying all those sweet things and for every one of those kisses...and then for being a giant asshole to me. You have inspired and motivated me more than I ever would have imagined. And getting my remote back is a reminder that, although at times it may seem like it, hope is not lost. Perhaps misused and mislaid and misjudged sometimes, but definitely not lost.

And so the dance resumed...

...with his glances from across the room, despite my preoccupation with diversions. His hand then on the small of my back, a heavy whisper in my ear. Its all so familiar but still perilously beckoning. My only other option was to run. A purely wicked dichotomy, because it could only bear the resemblance of catastrophe, regardless of the choice I was to make.


But so the world would not be, without tragedy lurking in the shadows of anything worthwhile. And how easy it is to forget its potential ravages at that one moment. That split second when choice simply ceases to exist and your heart begins to beat so fast you cannot find your breath. And as soon as you do, it is stolen from you just the same. But, oh what a kiss.

God bless the art of coquetry

I declare, wholeheartedly, I love men who flirt. And completely unabashed flirting at that. It is amazing how one seemingly trivial action is capable of making me feel unquestionably feminine and unmistakably pretty. There is something to be said about the confidence in a man who will hold my hand in his and play with my hair, in a room full of people, although we've barely just met. It is an art form.

One...

One love
We get to share it
Leaves you baby if you
Don't care for it

U2 "One"



Simple, simple lyrics. Yet, I found myself choked up tonight at the U2 show. Twice. I'm not a concert cryer, nor am I one of those crazed fans who screams bloody murder and then faints right there in the middle of a moshpit. I do, however, enjoy any music that evokes some emotion and manages to replace my everyday skin with those fantastic, tingly little goosebumps. I know Jade, it's chicken skin ;)

Tonight, I shed actual tears. I'm not sure where they came from really...I wasn't even in a particularly sad or emotional mood. I may have been embarrassed (even if slightly) from my blubbering if it hadn't been for one thing, I happened to look over at the 40-something year old man next to me at the very moment he was wiping a tear from his cheek.

I Do. Or do I?

I got into a long discussion about marriage today. Well, not just marriage, but partnership. These days it seems marriage can potentially be an entirely independent and unrelated action from the actual union of two people anyway. But in an attempt to try and understand why humans do what we do, we asked ourselves how and why people get together. A boatload of questions came about, but not many answers. Not many definitive ones anyway:

Is it natural for humans to want to find that one special person and ‘settle down’ as they say? Or is it the ideology of marriage that has brainwashed us into thinking that we do? If marriage just didn’t exist, would we still act the same way toward relationships? Would we even get into relationships? Are we walking around sizing everyone up to fit into that one slot whether or not there is an exchange of vows? Does the desire for children factor in here anywhere and change anything? Statistically speaking, if we’re meant to pair up with just one person, is it possible for everyone to find their partner in their lifetime? Does the probability of settling down with one person get higher or lower or stay the same the longer you are single? Are over half of marriages ending in divorce now because people are being fed an unrealistic view of what it should be? Are we having undue pressure put on us to get married because that is what is considered the standard? Why are people not getting married as young as they used to? Marriage was created by humans, will it ever be dismissed by humans? Is it even realistic to assume that we are wired to be monogamous?

Phew, I need a drink.

Not Bitching (for once)

There’s something to be said about going off and just bitching about the things that bother you sometimes. And I mean BITCHING, only the way a woman can. There’s probably a reason the term was originally associated with women in the first place, we’re quite simply really, really good at it. And it’s no secret that I’ve bitched lately about men and their shortcomings (pun fully intended).

 I feel a lot better.

 And I think the universe heard me complaining. And now, since I am a huge advocate of keeping things fair and balanced, I must now give credit where credit is due.

Big ups to the man who has caused me to wear an especially satisfied smile on my face lately and brought the spring back into my step. As well as helping me remember that there are things worth shaving my legs for. I don’t know where he came from or how he learned the things he knows, but I certainly wouldn’t mind finding out. I’m actually not so sure he’s human to be honest. Some of his abilities are not of this earth.

Some time ago I made out with him…in a 7-Eleven freezer. I would hardly think cases of Budweiser and 2 percent milk to be alluring, but when he spun me around and kissed me in the vapor of our visibly cold breath, I knew I stumbled upon something interesting. And although it would be quite some time before I really knew what I was in for, I got a sneaking feeling that this one had some tricks up his sleeve. These tricks, my friends….are not for kids.

Looking back at my past, I accidentally noticed something, although I’ve never had a “type”, seems in recent years there were a string of guys who weren’t the burliest of chaps. The I’m-a-lover-not-a-fighter types, which is all great and good. I like to think that anyone I choose to spend time with is an exceptional person, for the simple fact that I am extremely selective about my free time and whom I spend it with. But I have to say, I’ve missed a few things over the years. Like guys who own (and know how to operate) tools, like saws and drills and stuff. A tool belt is an added bonus, even if I ask him to put it on just for fun! Or the guy who can pick up those big jugs of water without turning purple before toppling under its weight and cracking a rib. Speaking of picking things up…there’s something refreshing about a guy who can pick me up (and let’s say…just for the hell of it…carry me into the bedroom) with the same ease as say, carrying a bag of feathers. Okay, a hundred and five pound bag of feathers, but whatever.

Moreover, there’s something fantastic and strangely comforting in knowing that if someone fucks with you, he’s not even going to hesitate in taking the necessary steps to introduce his fist to the person's face (only if absolutely necessary, of course). I mean, not that he’d go looking for bar brawls or anything, but he ain’t running away from a little danger when another’s respect has been compromised.
But it’s not just about size and strength, there’s also something very attractive about a man who makes an experience of taking you clothes off, one piece at a time…in the living room. And especially appealing when he actually takes the time to check out the ensemble you just bought (after all, that is at least part of the reason you bought it, you kinda thought someone might be taking a peek pretty soon). There’s something enticing about a man who isn’t afraid to make the first move and even if you say no, he’s aware that it just means no until next time. And until next time he will wait. And when next time comes, he will be equally disarming and kiss you wildly…(and change your water jug for you too).

As always, out of respect for the privacy of others, I never mention any names but, with a big smile I say thanks to my new friend for all the spooning...and the forking.

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em

I’m exhausted but cannot sleep, why this happens I will never understand…so I find myself in front of my computer. Back in the day I would have found myself holding my journal in my lap. The journal that I painstakingly kept…long hand. It’s so much easier to type. I seem to have this love/hate relationship with technology…

…exemplified by my personal anti text messaging campaign lately. I loved it at first for so many reasons. A great little novelty and a reason to spend all too much money on a new cell phone which boasts easier access to texting (which has now become its own verb), the quiver of excitement from hearing the special ring tone you’ve set for your special incoming texts. The wonder of what that little message might tell you that spoken words could not. But then, I began to despise it. I started to think that communication in this form would deteriorate our one on one, face to face experience. It seemed like an easy, almost cowardly, way out of having to really speak to someone. I decided to put myself on hiatus from texting.

Reluctantly, I must confess I may have changed my mind. But I don’t suppose that’s such a bad thing. There is always reason to discover the good things in everything, especially when you may have just overlooked them initially. My flip flopper attitude stems from a virtual tennis match of texting I participated in recently.

In the silence of the late evening, I lay in bed thinking about my adamant new old fashioned ways, and then I hear that special ring tone. I began to imagine life when there were no telephones. Not only cell phones, but regular telephones as well. Correspondence came in the form of fancy inked letters with a melted wax seal, stamped with a family shield or monogram of some sort (all this to insure the messenger wasn’t being a snoop while on his way to his destination). The anticipation of a letter from a lover may have made the days feel like weeks, and the weeks an eternity. And just as we always appreciate the book much more than the movie because of the pictures we paint so vividly in our minds, the mere thought of her smile from his words as she reads them would stay with him long after the pen touched the paper. It seems that because everything took longer, perhaps they were appreciated more. And that wasn’t so bad.

So what does this all have to do with modern times I asked myself? I realized that if I took a step back, I might find the very qualities I’d written off, because of our hurried world, staring me right in the face. Turns out, there could be many similarities in those feather quill letters and the texts I’ve received. They were just shorter versions…and of course, I was receiving them at lightning speed. No horses or messengers or carrier pigeons. But the wonder and imagination were ever present. Dare I say there was even something romantic about talking to another without actually speaking? With the inescapable romance of a dark and stormy evening (where I was anyway) and the distance between us, I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps something I wrote may have made him smile. I vividly painted my mental picture, his face highlighted by the dim light of the LCD screen on his cell phone, nimbly pushing the corresponding numbers to form the words he was about to write.

Of course text messages are a far cry from writing a letter, but I found that I liked partaking in a form of communication that telephones seemed to have taken away long ago. And maybe this technology that I love and hate so much is bringing a bit of it back.