Say "Cheese"

I remember the first time I heard it. Well, heard may not be entirely the correct word, as that image conjures up voices in the head. Perhaps memo is a more accurate term.

Okay, let’s start again. I remember the first time I got the memo. It contained three words and no explanation. “Stop Drinking Wine.”

I promptly ignored it and booted said message to the recycle bin.

A few weeks later, those three words reappeared in my mental “in box.” This dance went on for about a year with the same memo coming in and me ignoring it. In August of 2007, the message doubled in size to six words, “Stop drinking wine for thirty days.”

In that moment, I let loose a victimy sigh and said with great melodra-martyr flair, “Fiiiiine.”

As I was walking with Groom at the time and my dramatic exhalation came out of nowhere, he looked at me with appropriate puzzlement. I did not have a chance to utter a word before our cell phone rang. It was my dermatologist calling and she said, “I want you to stop drinking wine for 30 days.”

Are you kidding me??

My face is often rutilant and Doc suggested cutting back on the vino as a last ditch effort to minimize the ruddiness.

Before you picture me as a lush, you should know that my fermented grape juice consumption was limited to a glass a day. No, not day, per evening with dinner. I admit it, I indulged in an hour of pleasurable ritual every night. These 60 minutes comprised a special trinity: a glass of cabernet, a television show and delicious food.

As Groom and I broke bread, we relaxed, allowing the stress of the day to disappear with each sip of mirthy grapes. We tuned out, the television performing an hour of mental dialysis.

I did not want to give it up.

When I folded the phone after talking with my skin doctor (darmnit, I can’t hang up anymore), having committed to my version of Lent, I had the task of informing Groom of my impetuous decision to forgoo the happy juice.

Now I knew better than to announce to Groom that WE were temporarily abandoning one of our pleasures, so I simply shared the interesting timing of my intuitive guidance with the dermatologist’s request.

Groom decided (on his own) to join me. Phew!

I will not regurgitate the list of doo-doo that hit the fan, but trust me when I say all manner of mierde leapt from the woodwork and challenged us to see if we were serious in our commitment.

People reacted in a variety of ways to our month long wine-fast. One couple, prior to our decision, had made the proclamation that if we ever stopped drinking they would NOT be amused. They were true to their word. The invitations to dine became less frequent until they were non-existent.

It was a long 30 days.

The surprise was that by the end of it, we’d lost both our taste and desire for Bacchus’ titty.

A year of abstinence later (okay, not quite, but one glass per month as opposed to 31 felt like abstinence), I received another memo. Uh-oh. This one also contained six words, scarier than the first. “Stop watching television for 30 days.” What???

If we thought people reacted strongly to us eliminating wine from our diet, we were thoroughly unprepared for the hostility that came forth because we turned off our boob-tube. In hindsight, wine was an easier addiction to see, but television? Well now we were stepping on people’s toes just by making that decision for ourselves. Yikes!

Another unexpected result was that we tasted our food and noticed when we got full much quicker than when we were hypnotizing ourselves with the magic box. I was accustomed to stretching out my dinner for a full hour and without the digital entertainment, I pushed my plate away in less than half the time.

We also ate half as much.

Without the wine calories and then naturally cutting our dinner proportions by half, Groom managed to lose around 65 pounds. I wish I could cluck about any figure improvements for myself, but I just wrote about my clothes not fitting last week, so I’ll say nothing more about it…

The wine-fast led to the television diet, which led to the weight loss. Each contained a surprise benefit that I didn’t know about ahead of time when I decided to follow my guidance. You’re right, I guess that’s why it’s called a “surprise.”

For a small excrement of time without my wine, I mean increment, I felt antsy. But without my television, I felt downright itchy. It provoked existential angst, “Who am I without the relationship to my T.V.?” Until I stopped watching, I had no idea the dependency I had created and I was not enjoying the withdrawal symptoms.

One morning during my DT’s, while traveling north along the coast from California to Oregon, I was taking pictures with my pocket camera in Arcata. A third memo fluttered into my awareness, this time in the form of a question.

“What would happen if you developed a relationship with your camera?”

In that moment, I decided to take pictures of anything and everything. After a few months of pursuing this, I knew I was outgrowing my pocket-size Olympus, yet a relevant quote from a camera magazine pointed out, “The best camera is the one you actually take with you.”

I was actually taking my little camera with me everywhere as it fit conveniently in my purse. Would I really haul around a larger one? I’m not inclined to research a bunch of statistics online, reviewing which camera merits the best rating. Techni-babble makes me verrrry sleepy. No, I decided to do my study in the field.

This research included knowing what kind of photography I wanted to pursue and then discovering which camera would be the best tool for the job. Anytime I saw a person carrying a serious looking camera, I’d ask them about it. What kind, how did they like it, what was the shutter response time, could I hold it, etc.?

I was pleasantly delighted to discover how friendly people with cameras were and how much information they were willing to offer. I kept notes and yet could not seem to make a decision. What if I chose the wrong one? What if a better one came out as soon as I did make up my mind? What if I outgrew it? What if what if what if???

Apparently the photography Muse became exasperated with my indefinite deliberations and made the decision for me. At a family BBQ a few weeks ago, Brother-In-Law arrived with his brand new camera. I gravitated toward it instantly and he was very generous in letting me play with it during the evening.

Naturally, I asked him all kinds of questions and he answered that he liked it just fine except for…Except that he discovered too late that an even newer model had been introduced to the public with an HD video feature that he was salivating over. Ah, my fear being played out…what if I plunked down the pennies from the piggy bank and then an even better camera vied for my affections??? Now he was in existential angst.

The next day I received an email from Brother-In-Law, offering the camera, a case, two batteries, chargers and four lenses for an amazing price. If I said yes, then he would go High Def.

Ah, what to do?? I consulted Kimmm, Bee Bugg and Goat Mama, all photographers. Kimmm had the funniest, least technical answer. She said, “Why are you even questioning this? Of course this is your camera. It so fits your story arc.”

Huh? I have a story arc?

“Yes,” she affirmed. “You do. Of course a camera would be delivered to your house at a next-to-nothing price.” She just laughed and shrugged like she was talking to a simpleton.

On Saturday, I was holding my new acquisition, wondering a few things about it when a man appeared in my booth. With no introduction or preambles, he said, “What would you like to know about your camera? What would you like to know about photography?”

I was stunned. An inner prompting told me I had manifested a tutor and there he was, showing up. Groom watched the booth as I wandered around the outdoor marche with Kimmm and Richard, having a fun photography lesson.

There are many more words I could use to describe the experience, but I’m going to save you about 1,000 of them, as that is what the current market value of a picture is worth.

The Empress' New Clothes

Baby’s got back. She’s got junk in her trunk. And by “she” I mean me.

I love manifesting. That is, having an idea, putting it out there, releasing my attachment to the outcome and then discovering the delightful way in which it comes to me. For instance, the other day I was quite bored with my wardrobe. I wanted new clothes. That afternoon I went for a walk with Groom and we stopped by the Post Office.

Turning the key and opening the metal door of our postbox is always a thrill as I anticipate it to be full of goodies, surprises, cool cards, fat checks, affectionate notes, missives from far away lands, invitations to dine and miscellaneous greetings.

I was not disappointed. Inside was a notification that I had a package. Standing in line, I felt like a kid at Christmas. What might it be?? When it was finally my turn, a postal worker sporting a jazzy comb-over handed me a box. I made myself wait until we were back at the homestead to open it.

Slicing through the packing tape with a lime green box-knife and lifting away the tissue paper finally revealed several layers of beautiful fabric. Wait a minute, not fabric, clothes! Accompanied by a card, the handwritten note from my cousin in California (named Frida Maria) explained that she had been inspired to design new outfits for me.

I was so excited, I couldn’t wait to try them all on.

Uh-oh.

My backside is much bigger than either of us realized. There’s a big gap where the clothes don’t fit. When I thanked her profusely, I admitted the size discrepancy as she was telling me about some more designing ideas.

Her solution? She made herself a fake bottom for a more accurate fit. A faux bottom, imagine!

Shall we take a peek at the junk in my trunk? Yes, I’ve been dragging baggage around with me and also working deliberately to let it go.

On Saturday, a vendor I’d never noticed before stopped me as I walked past his booth. He engaged me in conversation and made an observation saying, “You look like a very happy person.”

Admittedly, this is still a fresh, new feeling and his comment took me by surprise. I don’t know why I confessed this (little vestiges of my story still clinging perhaps?), but I replied that until recently, I had been a very angry person (Okay, before you mention it, yes, I just now realize I need to stop saying that. You are witnessing the last trace of something no longer in existence disappearing into this moment. Thank you).

His candor took me to the next level of surprise. “For you to be so angry, you must have been victimized.”

His words struck like an arrow to the center of my heart. We’re not talking sweet, valentine cupidy arrows with red fluff, but sharp, hitting-the-target with accuracy poisoned tips. I felt the wind knocked out of me. His face was so kind and because he was speaking with such compassion, I had a moment of clarity, seeing the bigger picture.

“That’s an old story,” I said, “stuff I’m leaving behind.”

Or was it? His use of the word “victimized” set my teeth on edge. Recognition can be humbling because this next part is humiliating to admit. I’ve been victimizing myself and blaming others for it. Until this weekend, I’ve been using other people and what they say, don’t say, do or don’t do as excuses for my moods.

I carry gigantic, nay, colossal, mammoth, grandiose expectations. Expectations that other people will behave in certain ways in order to make me feel good, and darmnit, if they don’t keep letting me down.

I have put my emotional well being in the hands of other people and then feel victimized by the smallest of things. No really, they are ridiculous. In fact, the smaller the “slight,” the more pain they seem to inflict. A glance I can’t interpret, someone choosing to sit in a chair across from me rather than immediately next to me, a thank you I feel warranted that does not come, someone taking longer to answer via email that I think is appropriate.

This is how I am victimized. Can you believe it? When I write this out loud, I am cringing. Why stop there? I look for rejection everywhere. As a friend says, “You go where you look.”

When I look for rejection, I find it. Evidence is everywhere to support my belief, whether it is a useful one or not. I also get plenty of praise, but as that does not fit the old program of Rejection I’ve been running, why pay as much attention to that?

When I feel rejected, it is because I am attending and nurturing my ego, the smaller, undeveloped part of myself composed of a thousand little hurts.

When I am attending and nurturing my spirit, things look very different to me. When I reframe my view through the eyes of Love, I see others as individual reflections of the Divine, each unique and beautiful, doing the best he or she can.

I carry my weight around my belly and bum, second chakra: Money, self-worth, sexuality, and creativity. As the clothing attests, I have a gap. Not everything fits anymore.

I could look at the ill-fitting clothes as an excuse to feel bad. In fact, it’s so tempting to allow just about anything as my excuse to get out of the flow. I’m not sure why my ego’s favorite flavor of mood is to feel like mierde?

However, I could also consider the gap as a signpost that I’m expanding and that it’s all behind me now. As I look in the mirror, it’s more empowering to understand it’s simply a reflection of where I am rather than making up a story about what anybody else is doing to me.

And with that, I shall bid you adieu.