December 2009 Archives

To be born again in its most literal sense is not only the first move towards enlightenment, but also part of an essential step on the career path away from fear and nepotism and towards understanding the true power of the self. A prime pre-Yeheshua example of the power and challenge of being twice born is Dionysus, son of Zeus and the mortal Semele. When Zeus' actual wife Hera found out about her lothario hubby's canoodling, she sought to destroy both babymama and child. Disguised as an old hag, she persuaded Semele to beg Zeus to present himself to her as his divine self, which he did, and as no mortal can behold a god in his true form, Semele died, forcing Zeus to nab the baby and sew it into his mighty thigh for incubation purposes. Thus was Dionysus, whose power would later rival that of his own father, born again, or should I say, delivered twice by C-section. As a side note, Lord Dionysus who wore his hair long like a girl and was somewhat of an esoterrorist, would later retrieve his mother from Hades and make her a goddess, thus Semele, like Mary, is also twice born. Rebirth: it's not just for men anymore. 

Meantime, let's consider the modern mythos: Luke Skywalker with his beloved Rabbi, Yoda, in the Dagobah Yeshiva. Luke enters the Tree of Knowledge to fight his mortal enemy: his father, Darth Vader. Only when Luke manages to flick off Darth's mask with his manly light saber, does he finally see his true enemy: himself. Oy vey! Thus, by understanding his Shiva Nature, Luke is able to lift his rattrap X-Wing from the bog of past consciousness and be reborn as a Jedi Warrior. Only, to quote my dear friend Mary Childers, "Sometimes you have to cleave to leave." IE, in order to be reborn, ya gotta get radical, as in e radice-- from the roots. And ya gotta dig real deep to detach those stubborn buggers. And sometimes it feels like a break-up or a murder or an evisceration, your guts spooling from your belly like a sacrificial lamb to some cause you can't quite articulate; Think of YHWH--insert the Hebrew letter Shin and YHWH becomes Yeheshua and you basically have the New Testament. It's so much more than a copy-writing coup; it's the reification of an entire religion with just one little letter. It's simple but it sure aint easy. 

Just imagine Paul in Damascus. It's not like the big change just happens, you must make it happen and then keep that bad boy going. IE: Rebirth is not only evolution, it's revolution and it's bloody and you gotta get with a whole new crew. Not to mention rebirth's absolutely an inside job, an esoteric metamorphosis from which you emerge, bleating and tender as a lamb. All right, I'll buy that it already feels like you've died and been reborn a gabillion times, but you're not Cher or Ganesha or Luke Skywalker and you don't have any of Jesus' street cred. But the beauty of rebirth, at least in the yoga tradition, is that you get to pick yourself up after every savasana, roll up your mat and be reborn with every practice, nay, every breath. As Shakti needs her Shiva, so creation needs destruction. Either that or a bigger closet.

Later that night, grading papers at a local French joint near my then apartment, I found myself in a conversation with a tall, attractive musician whom I'd noticed there before and with whom I'd exchanged glances. After his set, this musician, who played an instrument called an ud (pronounced ood), was very charming and talkative and came to sit down and share a salad with me. We talked about John Coltrane's big, sweet notes and the genius of Henry Miller. The next thing I know, we're the last people in the place and he's offering to walk me home. Clearly, I agreed. The night was clear and crisp and even though he told me he just got out of a long relationship and was in a "weird place," I invited him upstairs. 

That was Monday. When Saturday rolled around and he hadn't called, I hearkened back to his remark about the ex and chalked it up to a nice experience with a talented being and tried to forget about it. Unfortunately, I ended up the following Monday grading papers at the same joint. Only this time I was wearing an overly-revealing revealing wrap dress. I was also waiting for him. I could feel it. The thing is, earlier that same evening, teaching my class, I'd been talking about the idea of truthful distance (AKA control) versus detachment. You want to feel something, but you want to have a little perspective, otherwise, your piece (and, let's face it, your peace) runs the risk of being a rant instead of a story. The distance is actually a more effective tool to communicate true feeling than the raw feeling itself. The non-attachment IS connection. It's closeness. That's Kierkegaard's third remove and if he were alive today he would be a big proponent of AOL's Send Later button. If Soren were really mad at Ludwig, maybe he would type out the enraged ending-the-friendship email at four in the morning, but he would hit Send Later, snuff his candle and go to sleep. He would wait until the next day to review what he wrote and delete for something with a slower, deeper burn. 

That night, as I crossed Atlantic Avenue with my musician and his ungainly ud, I knew I was making another heart-mistake, but was having a hard time steeling that better brain. So instead of getting to my door and saying, "Thanks for walking me home," I began to deliver a huge and hugely personal soliloquy about my not-so-distant past: my novel that wasn't published, my ex-boyfriend who was stalking me and the fact that I was about to move in with my parents at age 37. "I have crow's feet," I told him. "Lines. Nipple hair. My butt is sagging and my pap smear's irregular and sometimes I get so lonely I can't believe it. I can't believe that this is me. How did this get to be me???" 

We never spoke again; though he did text me a week later about some long johns which he'd left in my apartment. I'd donated them, along with a bag of other clothes, to Partnership for the Homeless. I spent about fifteen minutes composing an overly lengthy, cute text re: his pants and what I'd done with them. But then I clicked "Send Later" and didn't.

The fateful evening arrives and you feel good: pretty, together, tranquil. The apartment's clean. You're wearing new boots. Sexy underpants. Perfume. Cole Porter's crooning softly in the background--You're the Top. You're dreamily wafting about your living room in a state of humorous non-attachment. In other words, you've never been more you in your life. The buzzer bleats. You adjust your hair, exhale a sigh and go to open the door on yourself. 

Om namah shivayah. Standing there in your well-lit hallway, looking sparkly-eyed and hopeful, and perhaps wearing a little too much mascara, is you. And you really have to look at you. Drink you in. Connect. You have to go out to dinner and a movie with yourself, with all your crow's feet and baggage and doubts. You have to stop talking, talking, talking and actually listen. To yourself. You have to love yourself and all your scars, moles, experiences and quirks. Would you set yourself up on a blind date with you? What's more, would you call yourself the next day? Could you, would you commit fully to a healthy relationship with yourself, even when the cable's out, there's no good books in the house and you're grouchy? When you imagine your future, are you in it? As you sit there at your computer, drinking your coffee, are you there, fully realized in all your faults and blessings? Can you see, really see, yourself and fall in love all over again. And again. And again. 

The next morning, your best friend calls to see how things went. At first you're laconic but then you open up. "S/he was pretty nice," you say. "A little older than I hoped, but there's a lot there. It was challenging but very, very real."