Traveling Light

So I'm going to San Antonio to spend a week with my friends Jesse and Julie. I'll be flying on Southwest Airlines courtesy of the Kanner Lubbering Foundation for Peace, Love and Happiness which is hosting an event up in Kerrville, Texas called: The Total Eclipse of the Sun.

I'm excited. I haven't been on a plane since 2016 when Danielle and I flew from NYC to Los Angeles to see M83 at the Greek Theatre. I'm opting for the window seat since I'll be flying during the day which presents the perfect opportunity to playact the role of Helios looking down at all the mortals gazing skyward (on April 8th, the day of the eclipse), which I consider an appropriate prelude to my pilgrimage. I revel in dramatic flights of pretending, especially if they are inspired by the spirit of symmetry.

Pretending is manifest in a variety of fashions: such as the spontaneous improv, or the long contemplated ruse, and the most common pretense of all—the godforsaken habitual. I like to be equitable and taste everything on the appetizer tray, so I might start my 7am coffee ritual with a harmless bit of operatic wailing performed for a family of mice bickering in the laundry room, and naturally, I'm accompanied by Yo-Yo Ma who is all smiles as he encourages a skosh more soprano even though he knows, damn well, I'm a tenor. But honestly, I'm grateful for his nudging. And after lunch (grilled cheeses with a side of kosher dills), I'll lace up my sneakers with the intention of walking my requisite 2.5 miles yet inevitably I end up in bed reading another chapter of The Night Watchman by Louise Erdrich and just as I contemplate a nap I bust out the iPad and start writing a new blog and debate whether I should sit by the window or the aisle because they both have their pros and cons but I end up convincing myself the window is better because I can be Helios, and it's settled. Then night rolls around and I think about weed and how I haven't had any gummies or hit the pipe since the start of the year and I say, good for you, and wonder where I ended up hiding the stash even though I know for sure it's in the bin I tucked deep inside a dead closet so I wouldn't think about it—the "it" being whether or not I'll convince myself that weed helps me sleep better and eases my chronic-itis—but instead I'll get on the yoga mat and do my three sets because I'm reborn and I've put my hurts in the same bin with the weed and then tomorrow night I'll turn on the purple light and I'll think about how there is no way just one puff will make a difference. And these are the ways I pretend.

As my friend Doug would say, "We all got to be something."

I think I'll be a good listener when I get to San Antonio and I'll bring my camera even though I have a tendency to use the viewfinder as a doppelganger. But I know that somewhere between me and my pretense is the spiritual balance that I speak of and trust.

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Teenage Musical Theory

Today was my first piano lesson.

I had been saving $20 a week for the last two years. Thankfully, I had a sweet job at the organic market in Hampden, and by sweet I mean they hired me, which I didn't expect considering I was 14 years old. But I wore my best track suit to the interview, I brushed my teeth real good, and I knew a lot about asparagus so I was pretty confident when I walked into the store and asked to see the manager. I had me a meeting and there was no way I'd be late.

You see, I was raised right. Mama don't play. She would say, "Baby, there ain't nothing you can't do. Just be on time." And she told me this while standing in the basement folding a load of laundry as I sat at the piano and counted the keys: 36 black and 52 white. Ain’t that a bitch. Now, I won’t go badmouthing anybody because Mama said that wasn't respectable, but I did secretly think the piano had the power to integrate in a positive way, which is precisely why I needed to save up for those lessons. I was motivated and I had theories. Theory number one: I needed to master them keys. I figured, if I could play all the notes without favor or fear, I'd: 1) get a scholarship to Johns Hopkins, 2) perform at the Hippodrome, and 3) run for mayor. The keys would spark a new generation of peace, love and happiness!

Mama said patience is a virtue.

I needed to graduate high school first. Fortunately, reading books and studying were my favorite things, besides hugging mama and laughing at the TV. We watched one of those political debates the other night. Everybody was yelling at each other, being mean and whatnot. It was funny in a prehistoric way, but it was mostly sad. It felt out of touch with what people really needed, which was, as mama would say—one love. And there wasn't a stitch of soul in any of those podium pitches to save America. When I'm mayor I'm going to preach unity and affection, I'll speak in iambic pentameter and haikus, the poet in the pulpit, I got nothing to lose. You know why? Because our collective psyche evolves at a snails pace. So I might as well be funky. And there’s a chance humanity will never realize our divine gift of compassion; we’ll just keep slapping each other upside the head until we’re zombies. As a species, we behave like spoilt three year olds; this is theory number two.

Let’s break out the slide rule.

Ok, so humans have been on earth for around 200,000 years, but, we are only three grumpy years into our ultimate destiny of true enlightenment. Now, we’ll assume society will eventually mature beyond this hella bitch phase when we’re around 25 years old. So when we divide 200,000 by 3 we can see that each birthday on the road to self realization happens every 67,000 years. Which means: We should be nicer people in about 1.5 million years.

Anyways.

I'm going to focus on the piano for now. I'm bringing love to the podium, y'all. It's a start.

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Life Is But a Dream

I was in a funk the other night. So I made some popcorn and crawled into bed with the iPad. I wanted to get lost in a movie. I needed some counseling of sorts, which reminded me of my friend, Doug. He was my consigliere. I wanted to talk to him. Every movie seemed ridiculous. Nah. Nah. Nope. I just kept munching on my corn and said, let the movie find you. And it did. I settled on a mini doc from 2017 called Ram Dass, Going Home. I watched it, and I paused, and I cried. This is what I learned, and transcribed, while eating popcorn:

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We are souls. As souls, we are not under time or space. We are, infinite. 

Just try following your breath. And anytime a thought arises, notice it, and then go back to the breath. Each time your awareness is drawn away from the breath, bring it back. 

No more plans. Going nowhere.

Nature is my friend.

Truth, love, consciousness. That's what God is to me. Just consciousness.

My life has been a dance between power and love. First part, power. I thought power was the end all, be all, because I was a little individual. After drugs (psychedelics) it was love, love, love, love, love. My life went from roles to soul. 

The great way is not difficult for those that have no preferences. 

Before the stroke, I had written a book that was called "How can I help?" After the stroke, I would have titled the book "How can you help me?" In this culture, dependency is a no-no. The stroke showed me dependency. And I have people that are dependable. My stroke makes it hard to play the cello. It's difficult to play golf. Those things are out there, and I'm in here (pointing to his heart). The stroke pushed me inside, even more, and it's so wonderful. I don't wish you the stroke, but I wish you the grace from the stroke. My guru told me the stroke would be grace. When I met the Maharaj-ji, it was unconditional love. It was wonderful to be loved that way. And I said, I'm home, I'm home. A guru is the doorway to God, to consciousness, to the One Love. With psychedelics, the Maharaj-ji said you can go into the room in which Christ and Buddha exist, but you only stay a few minutes, a few minutes. Everytime I would sit with Maharaj-ji, time would stop, it was like a moment expanded. He lived in eternity. 

Most of what we encounter are thoughts. I project not only the names but values, which is about judging everything. Without those projections, I can see everything. 

Life is but a dream. The incarnation is a dream. This incarnation suggests there are other incarnations. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily. People who don't seem to know that they are a soul, that their consciousness goes way farther than the incarnation. We pinch ourselves to know we are alive in this life. The soul is in the heart. The mantra is, "I am loving awareness." Identify with loving awareness and go through the veil, the consciousness veil. Going through that veil is part of spiritual practice. And the main part of dying. 

Make friends with change. There is change in the body: it's strength, memory. Death is change, just another change. If you identify with your soul, death is a snap. Your soul recognizes birth, death, birth, death. Death is another step towards home. 

Something has happened to me as a result of my meanderings through the realms of consciousness over the past 30 years that has changed my attitude towards death. A lot of the fear that death generated that led to denial has gone from me. Death does not have to be treated as an enemy for you to delight in life. Keeping death present in your consciousness, as one of the greatest mysteries and as the moment of incredible transformation, which imbues this moment with added richness and energy that is otherwise used up in denial. Death is not an error, it is not a failure, it is taking off a tight shoe. I delight and enjoy being with people when they are dying because I know I'm going to have the opportunity to be in the presence of truth. So when I sit with somebody, the first thing I have to do is open myself up to all my reactions to their predicament. All of it. All the pain of it. Grieve for the other person's loss. And when they feel heard in the grief, then we can start to meet behind the grief. And I'm faced with the paradox that I, as a human, with a human emotional heart, want to take away your suffering, but at the same moment there is another part of me that understands that suffering is grace. That suffering is the sandpaper from the spiritual point of view that is awakening people. And once you start to spiritually awaken, you reperceive your own suffering and start to work with it as a vehicle for awakening. My guru says, "God comes to the hungry in the form of food."

I said to Hanuman, what are you monkey? And Hanuman answered, "When I don't know who I am, I serve you. When I know who I am, I am you."

We've lived longer than we think. We are traveling through lives. What did you learn in this life? Considerable joy. Considerable joy.

So you love something and you become one with it. All of us, one. All of us, one. Yeah. One consciousness. One consciousness. And that's the way in which the world could right itself, starting with your peace, your love, your compassion, and go from there. And then, love everything. Everything. 

Let's all walk each other home. 

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Thank you, Ram Dass.
Thank you, Doug.

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