The Queen of Hearts

This is embarrassing. For those of you who have been reading along (and thank you by the way, for the lovely feedback), you’ll remember that I spent all last week at the beach. Everything about the trip was ideal. No, I take that back. The time careened so wildly, that to remain truthful, I’d swear I was only gone for a day. The morning after I returned, the vacation felt like a beautiful dream, sweet but brief.

That’s not the embarrassing part. Oh, I don’t really want to tell you. No, I shouldn’t have brought it up, never mind. Okay, fine, I will.

The trip was bliss. The sweeping view of the ocean afforded by the house, the expanse of blue skies, mouth-watering food, the weather warm enough to sit nake- oops, I mean sit outside without, oh, you know, hats and gloves and stuff. Anyway, never you mind. The point is every single detail about the vacation was perfect.

And yet…

I managed to find something to crab about. Oh, why did you make me say it?

I mean, for crying out loud, when a chill came, there was a beautifully built fire in the wood stove. First thing I saw in the morning was the moon taking a bath in the ocean. I have the best companion. We cozily sipped coffee, nibbled on pumpkin bread, read interesting books, combed the beach, didn’t have a care in the world, but I still invented something to grouse about.

About what, you ask? About freakin’ nothing, that’s what. Okay, it was about something, but nothing is by far the better answer.

I allowed my mellow mood to shift into stormy seas over a card game. Yes, a stupid, meaningless bad hand or two, or nineteen. And before you psychoanalyze the whole affair, there wasn’t anything underlying it. No hidden emotions or agenda. That’s what is so embarrassing. I’d love to give you all sorts of reasons why I allowed a few kings, queens and jokers to pin me to the floor and give me a good thrashing, but that’s just it, the card game was the reason.

No, I am not a gambler. I’ve been to Las Vegas and Monte Carlo and have had the opportunity to see if I am. I’m not. Neither am I particularly athletic. Okay, not at all, so sports don’t get me all crazy wound up, and I’m a semi-gracious board game player, so I don’t become all in-your-face competitive.

It’s the ding dang cards. Once in awhile, when I play, I feel like I’m inflicted with a fever, channeling some beastly intoxicated gunslinger from the west of yester-yore. Simply put, I’m a sorry sport when it comes to the pasteboards, they just don’t suit me. I’ve been known to throw a tanty, sprinkled with a few choice words, as I fling the Bicycles to the floor. Yes, I realize I am not painting a very flattering portrait of my card playing self, but it’s not my proudest moment.

I’m supposed to be enlightened, growing, self-actualizing. What’s the deal?

On my last day, when the week sped by in five minutes, I snapped out of my card-coma and asked myself why I didn’t choose to meditate on the beach, or acknowledge the wonderful God-given beauty and offer up gratitude, or tap into the revitalizing energy of the place and visualize a few dreams?

Why didn’t I play with the ideal conditions that I had immediate access to and build upon them, continuing the creative cycle? Instead, I lowered my vibrational offering by getting into a ridiculous snit over a game and had to see the disappointment on Companion’s face and feel the onslaught of nasty chemicals circling my heart.

As I continue to ask questions, I’m gifted with possible answers. The one that landed ker-plunk into my energy system, made my face feel warm. Again, kind of embarrassing. I was shown how my happiness is rather situationally dependent. If the outer conditions in my world are in order, then I tend to be much happier. Because my snarky emotions are convincing, demanding a perfect environment, I’m often in pursuit of external soothing.

The term “control freak” might have been tossed in my direction once or twice, but one person astutely observed, “You seem to be far more interested in controlling your environment than other people.” Yep, I’m always looking for the outer circumstances to be neat, tidy and calm.

And this week I had a taste of my dream. There was not one thing to complain about. A slice of heaven everywhere I turned. No problems at home, no problems brewing with Companion, a week of insular perfection. And I still managed to create one. Those stupid stupid cards.

The lesson for me was humbling. I was blessed with the experience of having everything in my outer world finally reflect perfection and yet, I still found something to whinge about. The issue was coming from me and only me. I had to face that I was the source of my unhappiness. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky to blame it on. Not a single blemish in my 7-day realm to accuse. The discord was all from me.

Why is it easier to slip into negative thinking, even in the midst of perfection? Of course, as soon as I formed the question, I read this paragraph in Shogun by James Clavell on page 98.

“As she waited patiently, she forced herself to think of pleasant things. ‘Always remember, child,’ her first teacher had impressed on her, ‘that to think bad thoughts is really the easiest thing in the world. If you leave your mind to itself it will spiral you down into ever-increasing unhappiness. To think good thoughts, however, requires effort. This is one of the things that discipline—training—is all about.’”

Yes, before you ask, I have tried meditation. In fact, I attempt it almost every morning. I sit in the lotus position, or maybe it’s the dandelion, and close my eyes, paying attention to my breath. Inhale, exhale, aaaah.

And then my mind starts wiggling and dancing and bouncing off the walls like a jumping bean. I’d say “Mexican,” but perhaps the brincador has no country of origin and that might be considered profiling or even racist. Yet is stripping the hopper of its identity any more dignified and acceptable? Okay, do you see where my mind races off to? Oh yeah, I was meditating.

Breathe in, breathe out. Uh-oh, my nose itches. Alrighty Almighty, how long have I been sitting here with my eyes closed? (One eye opens and sneaks a peek at the clock). Two minutes, that’s it? Back to breathing. This is torture. It feels like when I was four and made to take naps that I didn’t want. Worse than that, it feels like I’m being forced to sit in the corner for a time out.

At this point in my journey, meditation is simply an opportunity for my mind to take inventory of its grievances, to meander the hushed museum of grudge antiquities, to polish my trophies in the rejection Hall of Fame.

Do you suppose I could check my emails, fold some laundry and do a few other tasks I need to complete while meditating without Companion noticing?

I don’t really have an ending, and no, I still don’t know why I continued to play hand after hand of the cards. Okay, go on ahead, psychoanalyze away.

Watching the Garden Grow

Ni hao. That's Chinese for hello in honor the of the Chinese New Year. Knowing I’m a cheerful member of the joy luck coincidence club, Happy Friend from last week’s installment sent me a link to a website about synchronicity. Did you know there are “two symptoms of enlightenment?”

Fascinated with the energy body and the chakra system, I’m always on the lookout for symptoms that could portend a major domo insight. So, what’s the word for a hypochondriac in the spiritual realm? I’m keenly interested in discovering any indications that a transformation is taking place within me toward a higher level of consciousness.

Well, the first symptom is that “you stop worrying.” The fine print states that people and events no longer bother you. Drats! I’m certainly not afflicted with that one yet. The second symptom of enlightenment is that you begin to notice an increase in the number of coincidences that are lining up around you. And of course, the more you notice them, the more you get.

Rumor has it that synchronicities can escalate to the point where we begin to experience the miraculous. What is a miracle anyway? How about an absence of time between a desire and its fulfillment?

I may not suffer from the first warning sign of enlightenment (no worries), but I’m definitely experiencing the indicator behind door number two, the following examples are lifted straight from this week.

Riveted by the idea of coincidences and miracles, check out this line from “Frida a novel” by Barbara Mujica. “A brightly colored miniature parasol caught Frida’s eye, and Alex bought it for her. ‘It’s for a doll,’ he told her, ‘and since you’re a little doll, I’ll buy it for you!’”

I’d just read this passage when my partner in the Frida-capades, Frida Rosarita, returned home from a whirlwind trip to Hangzhou, China. She’s quite the poetic photographer, as you can see, and look what she brought me - a charming parasol! When I told a friend how charming the blue and white parasol was she asked if it was a drink umbrella. Huh? Never mind, the point is there was no time between the desire inspired by the novel and the manifestation.

This one is even harder to ignore. Thursday, I went to bread night at the Axe & Fiddle with Chakra Girl. While enjoying the community gathering in Cottage Grove, a display of ceramics caught my eye. In that moment, I imagined how fun it would be to incorporate clay into my work, but then I realized I would need a kiln. I let the thought go, content with the feeling it evoked.

That was Thursday evening. A day an a half later, I received an email asking if I had any need for a “starter kiln.” What?! By Sunday it was delivered and positioned in my basement, including a professional grade extension cord. My heart does a little jig every time I see it.

As if that wasn’t enough for one week, after last Wednesday’s inspiration to “get me a new song,” the receptacle for the paper shredder needed emptying. As the cross-cut confetti spilled into the recycling, three random single words from oodles of paperwork survived the decimation. Ready? “Your. New. Story.” Ooooh, this makes me so happy.

Which was a change in mood from my pity party. I may not be the perfect hostess when it comes to dinner, just ask our latest guests (they didn’t like our salad dressing, we served the wrong wine, they had to ask for water and their coats at the end of the evening. Oops), but I excel at throwing lavish pity parties for myself. I never forget a detail, I attend to my every complaint and always serve the right whine.

What was the occasion for my latest episode? Oh, the usual victimization of unfairness. If everything is energy and if I don’t like the results, that is, the boomerang effect from my personal energy field, then I must be doing something wrong. Confession, I feel like I’m energetically disabled. I would have said retarded, but that word is a red hot trigger and we wouldn’t want to be offensive even if what I do feel is that constant low grade fever of frustration from the knowledge I should be able to understand something but my development is just so damn slow. What I need is feels beyond my grasp.

What is effortless for others requires tremendous exertion on my part, as if I have partial paralysis. Frida Kahlo, the artist, suffered this kind of pain in her legs to the point of amputation. Perhaps I feel the kinship in my energy body. Grasping, clutching, needy. Uh-oh, needy is creepy.

I mentioned earlier today that I’m keenly interested in discovering any indications that a transformation is taking place within me toward a higher level of consciousness. I view my life as a garden, the fruit proof that I’m doing it correctly. I have this metaphorical little plot of earth and I have consulted volumes of gardening books written by the experts and I’m trying to do everything according to wisdom, planting with the rhythms of the moon, nurturing the seedlings with love and attention, attacking every weed with a vengeance.

But my little plot of earth remains barren regardless of the multi-vitamined watering system, the perfect balance of sun to shade ratio and the enthusiastic affirmations I coo to the fertilized soil.

I was lamenting my failure as a gardener when my sister crashed my pity party. I offered her my tears in fine bone china teacups. She said they tasted bitter. She also had the audacity to tell me “expectation was the opposite of acceptance.” You can’t force things to be, you allow them to be. What?

“And besides,” she said, gearing up for a doozy, “you’re blocking the sun with your body all hunched over your little plot of ground like that. I bet you even dig up the fresh seeds just to see what they’re doing if they don’t grow after the first fifteen minutes you’ve planted them.”

Gasp! How did she know? Was that not the right thing to do?

“Stand up, take a look around. That small patch of land is not your life. This,” she said using grand sweeping gestures with her arms outstretched wide, “is your life. You want to live off everything you produce - one seed in, one vegetable out. Your work, your effort, your payoff. Woman, look around. It’s the delight of allowing and appreciating everything in your world that yields a crop. You have an all-season garden, even if it does not grow straight from this heap of dirt.”

She was getting wound up now. “You are completely ignoring the person who brought you a jar of preserves for the winter, or the wheelbarrow full of zucchini for baking bread.” She was running with my garden-is-life metaphor. “You think the only value comes from something you have directly planted yourself. If you’re nice to this person, then you expect (grrr, there’s that word again) them to be nice back to you in direct equal proportions. There, now your energy equation fits. You give them this, they give you that, a perfect reflection of this energy mirror you keep going on about. Yes, scripture says we reap what we sow, but it doesn’t say we get tit for tat. Ever hear of the idea of paying it forward?”

Her words snapped me out of my funk and similar to the special effects in a movie, my worldview rapidly elongated while I stood still. Trippy. In that instant I saw myself planting and nurturing a seed, but instead of it coming straight up from that square footage of soil I’ve been obsessed with, the roots have gone deep and sprouted up all around me. I’m blessed with towering shady trees, luscious fruit, and a variety of flowers blooming all year long. Hey, I’ve got an all season garden and I didn’t even know it.

I’m giving a shout-out to my sister who transformed my pity party into a bountiful harvest of gratitude. Today, January 28, is coincidentally, her birthday, so everyone join me in wishing her a Happy Birthday.

P.S. - On a gossipy note, she’s currently in Las Vegas celebrating her third wedding to her 2nd, 3rd and 4th husband. I’ve now decided to call her Mrs. Harris the III.