DatingGod

Vacation?

I just got off the phone from a phone session for a shamanic healing session. A session for someone who comes here to DG. Someone who has invited me several times to come for an all expenses (sans air fair) paid week vacation at a spa in Mexico.

And as I sit here, drinking a vast goblet of red wine, I think to myself: what sort of idiot turns down an all expenses paid vacation to an holistic spa for a whole freakin week? Oh yes, the same sort of idiot who turned down the invitation to France a while back. Because, really, what is my problem?

My problem, kind folks, is that in spite of all of my hard work the past decade, my boundaries grow thinner, not thicker. I feel the world even more, and people even more so. And there is a deep pain that comes with it, as if I'm losing skin by layers. So, yes, I see things so much more clearly. But no one told me how badly it would hurt to hold the truth so close, how it would burn off the separation between I and Other, and that I would feel it.

I spend as much time as possible here in the hacienda with the kitties. I write. I watch dvds. I read. But life is such that I do have to go out amongst other humans. (Please, can we not speak of how I am job hunting?) And the fan, it invites the caacaa to step ever forward.

My time with other humans has gotten so odd. My capacity and willingness to listen has grown so intense, my desire and need to talk has shrunk so tightly, that almost all of my interactions with other people consist of 97% them, 3% me. And it isn't that I'm not talking. I am. I'm talking about them. Asking questions, clarifying the tendrils of truths rising up out of them like smoke signals, following them down the rabbit hole where future and present meet head on with the mirror of their past. I obviously love it, this deep listening, this ocean of receiving another. But here's the problem: people eat that sh*t up.

Seriously, when's the last time you had someone sit in front of you for hours at a time, enraptured as you spilled forth your tale of Everlasting Me? I know that sh*t is heady. I know it. But I can't do it any other way. And folks end up chugging it like a spiritual beer bong on nickel beer night down at the Cosmic Cafe and Organic Lapdance Palace.

And it exhausts me in a way that you can't even imagine, in a way that makes me want to turn myself inside out and bathe myself in cabernet, make love to twenty-four year old tantric love gods, peel off all my clothes, walk off into the ocean and then keep walking.

This is what I can't figure out: if when I spend time with people I don't really want to talk about myself, and listening for hours on end to them talk about themselves exhausts me and loses it's joy about an hour and a half in, and holing up in my home for weeks on end makes me feel cranky, then what, pray tell, am I to do? Because nobody seems to like silence. Silence seems to be the thing folks run from screaming, filling up the path behind their pounding feet with the gravel of words and words and words and more words.

And so, a lovely chica invites me to France. And a sweet sister invites me to Mexico. And I'm horrified at what a nightmare it could turn into. Because, really, what alternative do I give people? (And no, we shall not speak of that trip to Britain, oh no, we shall not.)

And so I sit here, clacking away at my iBook to you lovely folks, your shadowy faces moving back and forth in my mind's eye. I feel you. I write to you. But you're not really here, are you?

Tim Finn sings:

"Are you loveless on this cold day
You feel like you're walking on your own grave
But somehow you know it's not for always"

Gone is the intense day to day knowing of how close my own death is, the death of life as we know it. Instead I sit with not quite knowing what to do next. Waiting for a job to appear that says Yes to what I can offer for cash to help me apply dents in the great financial mountain of debt I've slowly built the past four years. Waiting for the editor to read the latest draft of my book and give me notes. Waiting for the next updraft of What's Next.

I can feel it. I can feel it coming. Have been for a while. I spend hours applying for jobs I'm only marginally qualified for, knowing they'll never even call me in for an interview.

"It's coming," I keep hearing. "It's coming. No need to flail around making motion for the sake of movement. It's coming. Have faith. It's coming."

"Yeah, f*ck you," I reply to the soft, firm vibration. "How do I know you aren't the voice of procrastination? Of anger made manifest inside of inaction? Of arrogance built inside of I'm Better Than That? Of the supreme annihilation of What's Left of Me via F*ck It All?"

(In lieu of speaking to other humans, I speak to the energies that cruise my head)

"It's coming," it says. Like it always does.

And the sexual undertones aren't lost on me. A few months ago, the switch on my Hello I'm a Woman programming got flipped to the On Position. No space to dance it, at least no space that makes sense, other than inside of me, which is fine.

Yet, all sorts of weirdness occurred within utterly inappropriate channels. Have lost my relationship with the Bee Master. (But really, what else do you do with a married man who says that he can't get within a foot of you without feeling the overwhelming desire to bend you over and Give It To You. Which is a quote, btw). And my massage therapist is about to be jettisoned. (What else to do when you get that the next step is to give him a blowj*b?)

And so, here I sit. Drinking red wine. Wondering, please, Life, isn't there a way that you can swing giving me a vacation in Mexico with the cool chick who is basically my soul sister?

No answer.

So I pour another tankard of grape and listen to kt tunstall and admit that oh lordy, I so don't run this show.

Whatever you want, Life. Expansion for Yes, contraction for No. Yes, I know the drill. Thanks for the connection, the languaging. Thanks for the ride. Thanks for the new credit card. Thanks for the new found freedom from the crazy landlords. Thanks for the energy of Anger you provide me with each day to supercharge my living, even though I don't understand it and it gives me ajada.

Thanks for the freedom of Now. This freedom from ties and strings and requests and needs and demands. But could you please put a hitch in your giddyup? Please be a little clearer in what you want me to do next? (and could you please suck 30 lbs off me by next Thursday as I am so incredibly sick of looking pregnant?)

Life is good. It surely is. And really, who the frak knows what's going on? And even that is good . . .

Gumflapping, On Demand

John asked if I'd do an interview on his blog for his Five-Question Interview Series. Chatter on about my novel? Why sure, I said :)

For self-absorbed gumflapping, check out the interview here.

Flu, Flue, Flew

Sorry for the dead air but I've been in a coma, or at least a coma-like twilight state. Other folks would call it "the flu", but you know how mythic I am about everything . . .

The thing is, I haven't been sick in over 12 years. I've had generic head colds and some of them have been endorsed by cement companies that specialize in head faucets, but a fever, the flu? It's been so long that it took me a day to figure it out.

I won't bore you with the details, because I'm sure you're intimately equated with all the howling, crying, sweaty-headed minutiae, but suffice it to say that it certainly changed my frame of mind. I went to bed on Friday night much like I always do: my head full of thinky thoughts, my belly full of things like sauteed turnips, tomato and basil vinaigrette salad, and roasted asparagus. I had taken a hot bath with valerian and hops and was pleasantly narcoleptic. Then at 1:30am I awoke. To this segmented thought: Something. Is. Not right. I need. To wake. Up. Go to. The bathroom. Put hair. Into ponytail. Breathe. Deeply.

What was so odd, so different, was that it wasn't an unpleasant experience. It was as I were inhabiting a being who was ill, and I coached her through it, gave her things to do to blunt the physical experience, make it less intense, and they worked. (Is this what being single for so long has finally brought to me?)

I called my sis the next morning and asked her to bring me banana/pineapple/orange juice (yum) as any sort of vertical motion had been rendered impossible beyond 2-minutes in duration. And while she was here, because she is Queen of the Sisters, she did my dishes, cleaned the bathroom, and pooperscooped for the kitties. (Seriously, queen or what?)

I ran a fever of 101-102 for two days, and all during that time, all I did was sleep, and drift. I was so weak that even holding a thought was beyond my capabilities.

Two days of no thoughts. Just simple needs arising - lip balm, juice, kitty food in bowl, change position - that then took several long, slow movements undertaken over many minutes to complete. Life in genuine slow motion. So incredibly lovely. Such quiet. Such simplicity. The phone rang, but no need to answer it. Emails can sit. No work. No talk. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. Absolutely off the hook for everything to everyone.

I would awake after a couple of hours of sleep suspended in a cocoon of warmth and safety, conscious that my body was simmering, cooking itself, had turned into a self-directed cleaning mechanism, and that my job was to stay out of its way. The aching was terrible, but it was only terrible if I tried to stay awake. As long as I simply attended to simple needs, then went back to sleep, all was well.

The kitties stayed with me the entire time. And their purring was ratcheted up so intensely it was like being hooked up to fur powered love generators. And they smelled so sweet. What was that? What did it mean? I lay there in a fever haze, snuggled up to fuzzy, purring kitties, breathing in the scent of heaven and forest hybrids. How sweet to be so free of the world and so plugged into the joy of agape? Very, very sweet.

And so my body finally reached a firm understanding with the viral interlopers. My fever broke and I sweat, oh the sweat, sweaty-head, sweaty bed, kitties sliding out of my arms. And slowly, little by little the thoughts came back, and the doing, though not so much of either as before.

This morning I weighed myself to see that I'd lost two pounds (dang skippy), then did a phone interview for an amazing job (which I tanked), then watered my herb garden (which made it happy), then capped the day off with a visit to the video store where I said howdy to the clerks (who said howdy back). And I'm exhausted. And that's fine.

Because life goes, much like it does after one has had the flu have its way with you . . .

Bloom

Of all the changes I've been through the past few years, it's only the return of arrogance and aggression that I regret.

I understand that they came back as protection, as walls to enable me to navigate the emotional and mental battering rams that seemed to come along with the schoolwork. But I don't understand why they don't release me, let me go back to a gentler, more surrendered way of living.

Yet, they also came along with that spilt or breakthrough or death I went through. I've tried several times to explain what happened to me, and each time, the person I'm speaking with looks at me like I'm insane. Which is what they say in The Waking Up Handbook, of course :), but still, it's wildly, incredibly disconcerting.

How would you act if you saw through the game? If everyone around suddenly appeared as the scripted cartoon characters they are? If you got that this thing, this time, this culture we live in is no better or further along than anything that's come before it? That it's all the same, it's all happened before, it'll happen again, just with differently colored cultural doodads and mental accessories?

And why have I come back to this world, this culture of make believe, to romance and a career-job, to weight loss and flirting, to making friends and selling novels and finding a lover and telling my story and drinking wine and Looking For More. Why, when I know better?

Because I want to. Because I stood on the edge of the abyss, saw the drop and thought: I'm not done yet. I wanted to spend more time with my sister, my brother. I wanted to finish my book. I wanted to make love again.

And I want to be slender and athletic and strong again. I want to make peace not just with my body, but with my heart, my mind. I want to reach the place where I let it all go, not in anger and defeat and sorrow, but with laughter and deep, easy breaths and that kind of all-systems-go fusion that only comes when two people both lust and love one another.

When I ask myself what is different about wanting these things, these states, when in fact it's essentially what I've wanted all my life, what we all want, what I understand is that now these things, these states are possible. It's like when I died, something in me began to bloom, continues to bloom, lush and sweet.

Which is what makes the aggression, the arrogance, so hard to hold. They are like cancers to the forming fruit. And yet I've no clue how to release them, how to get them to release me.

I can't both hate the world and love it, then expect it to meet me with full on agape.

But until I find peace inside of myself with what I've seen, genuinely stop trying to find assurance from outside of me around it, the dichotomy will continue to hammer away at my heart and mind.

How could it not . . .

Real/Imagination

Just led a five-hour workshop on psychic skills and techniques. Nine women, all feisty, all with psychic ability already streaming, though many a protective dam in place. I never fail to lose delight in how juiced they get when they discover that it's a skill like reading, like math, that with practice and guidance, is very easily doable.

As usual, somewhere in the middle it hits me: nine human beings have paid money to hear me gumflap. And I'm humbled. And I ask myself: are you giving them something useful in exchange for the money, the time they are giving? And it makes me stop and reassess, ask myself: what are we really here for?

And as with any other class/workshop I teach, the real take home message is: the answers, the power you seek is inside of you. They come because of some "skill" I will teach them. But the real message never changes. If I do my job right, I make myself obsolete. If I do my job really well, I'll never see them again.

Each class/workshop I teach, I always think: this time I'll get away with just teaching the skill, sliding a few subtle messages in about the direction to head (inward). But each class, someone innocently asks the question that turns the whole class on its ass. Today the question was:

"I get most of my clarity when I drive in my car and I sort of talk to myself. I hold these conversations, and then I get answers. But what I want to know is: is this real or is it my imagination?"

And as I stare off into space, knowing that the real answer is: "Nothing Is Real" but that it will never fly, I flail about looking for a way to comfortably answer the question. I get that, yet again, I'm trapped. But how much do I tell them? How much is too much and they run screaming back into numbness? And so I dance around the answer, attempt to bring the answer back to something true, yet still safe.

I say that they have all given money and time to come and be a part of a class. That I have been set up as teacher and they have taken on the role of student. I tell them that my job is to gumflap. And that as I do this, they sort through and create mental piles of Yes, No, and Maybe. But that no matter how much Yes goes in the pile, it is still less "real" than what occurs in her car. That what occurs in her car is more real because it is less removed. In the case of the classroom setup, the info comes from outside of her, and so is therefor less real. For it to be more real, it has to run through the filter of her experience. And yet the experience she has in her car is still fraught with b.s. because it is still being run through the experience of speaking to an "other", be it Guide or Higher Self or whatever. And that is why she asks the question, because she can still smell the b.s. The b.s., I tell her, will be gone when you simply Know, when you finally lay down the separation between you and "the problem", when you look at a situation and face the truth of it, which makes itself known in the contraction (no) or expansion (yes) you feel. There will be no more "decisions", only acknowledgment of what Is Occurring. There will be no more "problem". There will only be This, then the next This, then the next.

And I forget what I said next, something where I attempted to sidestep the whole flood of stuff which of course comes after I say these things. Somehow we end up talking about how there is no real choice with the info that comes to them when they open the psychic channels. That there is no choice of pawing through to only take in "the positive", only the clear receiving of data. I make them repeat the 3 commandments of this workshop:

1. Thou shalt not judge yourself
2. Thou shalt not judge the information you receive
3. Thou shalt not judge, just read the energy

And somehow this leads to a discussion about the current insanity that is unleashing in the world. Someone says: we are at some sort of threshold. Another says: we are at a turning point. And I say to them: the skills you are learning, the techniques of how to read energy and then turn inward for answers is going to be incredibly important as the markers outside of ourselves get even more skewed.

I talk about the movie The Matrix, how it is a very thinly veiled metaphor for what is actually occurring. I talk about how reading the truth and living it doesn't mean that others will like you for it. I talk about how I blasted open to a place last year of such awakening that it shut me down for many months, left me in a place of such utter paranoia and fear that I could barely stay in forward motion. I almost talk about how they can become the strongest, clearest readers known to earthkind, and still it won't make them any happier or saner or more well-adjusted, in fact it will make the opposite occur, but I stop myself and don't say anything, just let the ghost of almost hang there in the air.

The room got very quiet. Still. I felt the energy shift in a direction that veered radically away from the simple straightforward trajectory of a psychic skills class. So I sidestepped, said something about how my experience wasn't theirs, not to worry, just work the steps we'd gone over.

And the room stayed quiet and one woman finally spoke up and said: it's okay that you say the things that you do. We need to hear this. You are dealing with a room full of people who have been dealing with panic attacks and anxiety meds and people thinking we're crazy, and really, please just be honest with us.

And so I talked a bit more. Did my best to speak only in facts. But I still pulled back. Because do they really want to hear the truth? Really? I can barely stand it, and I've been hammering away at myself for years. Maybe I disrespect them by not telling them that everything they know isn't true. But I cannot find a firm footing and so I give them a booby prize.

I make a joke and say that we could all stand up, start screaming, tear off all our clothes, run howling into the streets, and that would be more true than the gunflapping we do as we sit in this room. And everyone laughs. And I wonder how many of them saw the truth in what I just said.

I look up to see one woman nodding vigorously, her eyes fierce. She's very young and beautiful, a red-headed artist who makes jewelry and comes to all my classes, bartering rings and earrings and necklaces made of hammered metals and huge chunks of red coral. And I know that she's game for anything at this stage in her awakening. But we don't do anything more than meet eyes, acknowledge the moment.

After the workshop, we're all burnt crispy. I announce that I'm going to go get a burger and a glass of wine and welcome company. A few of us head out. And we talk nothing more serious than Battlestar Gallactica and Grey's Anatomy. And then I go home.

Which is where I sit now. Another workshop done. Another group of people sitting in their homes, absorbing what they went through today, sorting through, asking themselves: what was real? what was my imagination?

I hope I did my job. I hope I drove them inward. I hope I never see them again . . .

If They Only Knew . . .

My hits were up just a weeeeeeeee bit, so I went to check them out, followed a couple of hit streams and came up with this:

As best I can track it, the blog I linked to in the last post, linked to me as a site that linked to them. And then the New York Times linked to me via them.

Yep. If you look close, (click on screen capture pic to enlarge it) to the right, under the heading "Headlines Around the Web", in between links to posts from "Business Week" and "The Associated Press" you'll find the post entitled "Hot Dang" at "DatingGod".

Do those dudes know that the term "DatingGod" doesn't mean that I have intimate knowledge of That Which Animates Physics? That mostly I write about my organic red wine habit, my lack of nookie, and my rather fiesty dances with God-lubricated insanity?

(And will someone please call my mother? She'll be so pleased to know that this blog thing is finally taking off . . .)

Hot Dang

Via Scott Adam's Blog, Israel is apparently incredibly close to a new form of
Solar Energy technology whose price per kilowatt is so low that it'll make oil obsolete. Lots of ifs in the post, not a clear shot yet, but holy guacamole does this look exciting! (even if it only partially works: yeefreakinyaw :)

Classes and Holistic Whatnot . . .

Even as I let go of doing holistic work full-time, and set about job hunting for a public health position, I want to keep doing something with holistics each week. And with this simpler framework in mind, I want to create some stand alone classes and begin offering them through the holistic center, have them be on the lower end of the cost spectrum (i.e. a 2 hour class $20-25). I am a veritable walking encyclopedia of holistic knowledge and techniques, but not sure what to offer.

So, in your opinion, what sort of things are hot right now in the holistic world, what sort of things do you guys read about that interest you? What sort of things are you guys into, into learning more about, experiencing? What sort of skills would you like to learn about?

Any sort of feedback and info you can offer from your personal feelings and preferences, or things you've read would be greatly appreciated . . . :)

You Are The River

Salon.com has an interview with the fabulous Ken Wilber: You Are The River.

(I love this guy and his amazing ridiculously prodigious written gumflapping so much. Dang that boy knows how to fill a page . . . :)

Technicolor, Lust-flavored Love Bombs

Feeling a little strung out. Just took a ridiculously hot, incredibly long epsom salt and aromatherapy bath after yet another day of fierce working out - 9 miles on the bike (or maybe 10.5, I lost count), 200 crunches, a bit of yoga. Oh yeah, and treated myself to a huge pile of sashimi and a vegetable handroll for a five pm dinner. Sat at the sushi bar and had three of the sweetest, cutest guys bring me yummy things :)

I sent the novel to the editor today (whose name is Laurie, btw). She's booked until the end of May, but said that she may be able to squeeze it in sooner. I hope for sooner. If I have to wait four weeks my head will surely explode. But it's all good. I need a break from it. I need for everything to calm down a little.

In case you didn't notice, a series of technicolor, lust-flavored love bombs went off in me over the past month or so. Ka-boom, indeed.

Other than small awakening flares of consciousness around it, I've felt almost totally s*xually numb for the past couple of years. And slowly, so very slowly, I've been waking up the past few months, really beginning with talking to Michael that night, and then building over the past few weeks.

Part of it is related to the book, as one of its central themes is about the healing nature of s*x when love is present. A couple of months ago, as I began to work on the book in earnest, a channel opened itself up in the dam, and energy began to trickle through.

And then Life began to bring all sorts of men into my world.

Sitting in a coffee shop for hours that Friday a couple (few?) weeks ago, having Eddie listen to me, to what was going on inside of my head and heart, feeling genuinely heard, getting that this sweet, beautiful man had stepped up to help me navigate the treacherous waters that rage inside the fat I carry. Hanging with him a day or two each week, trading stories and support, a genuine friendship developing, helping each other along with the transitions we're in.

Hanging with the Bee Master as we drive all over the boonies, tending the bees, lifting the top off the hives and inhaling that soft, sweet, humming honey and pollen scent of them. Listening to some of the wildest spiritual/intellectual sh*t talking I've heard in a long dang while. Putting on the veil and jacket and gloves and entering a different world. Entering into bee time.

Getting the most intense massage I've ever had via a guy I met through bee class, by far the most aggressive therapist I've ever given my body over to. But he didn't hurt me, just turned my body inside out, folded it in and over and around itself like I was human taffy, and when he was done, kissed me full on the mouth. Though for the life of me I can't figure out how none of it was ever s*xual, because it was so very thorough in that way that only really intense s*x is. (Do you know what I mean by this? If you do, please let me know as I still haven't sorted this one out and am going back in for round two on Wednesday :)

Now I'm a bit hungover from it all. It has all just been so Very Much. I don't think it's possible to go from 0 to 90 in a few months and not feel a bit queasy from the speed wobbles. So I'm a bit protective of myself right now, like I want to hibernate a little and sleep and zone and splash in the shallow waters for a few days.

And so tonight I drink really delicious (woody, slightly nutty) red wine and listen to Ani Defranco and Ben Lee and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan and write and scratch the pelt of The Hoon and sigh into the gratefulness for this life I get to lead. Because seriously, I love my life. Oh, wow, how I love my life :)

And I know better than to do anything other than what This Moment speaks to. Because, really, who knows what tomorrow brings? I certainly don't . . .

Corporeal Cuddling

How can you not adore a man who can make a cat yodel?

Happy 5th

Yep: today is my blog birthday. Five years ago today I set up a little blogger account, set about learning a little html, and set out on a wee little adventure. And oh what a long, lovely, wild trip it's been :)

I went back to take a peek at the first entry and thought: dang, woman, how far you've come. (seriously, those of you who've known me that long: dang: right?!?) (even as I see that I'm still struggling with some similar things, ehem, hello weight issues :)

And what I realized is that I started this blog at the beginning of a massive series of changes in my living, that in fact this blog began as a way for me to understand, to cope with the seismic shifts going on. 2003 was the year I began to let go (or had forcibly wrenched from my paws) the energies I had generating behind such concepts as "healer", "soulmate", "best friend", "money", "teacher", and "home". And the impact releasing those energies had on my living was so profound, has changed my heart and mind and life so intensely, that I sit here and type this in the hometown I grew up, finally healing so many childhood wounds that I've lost count, a master's degree under my belt, finishing up a novel (honorably and with heart) I began a decade ago, standing strong and clear on my own (even as I begin letting in more and more people who are loving and supportive and just plain cool, and feel a new appreciation for those wondrous few who've chosen to stay with me during the past five-year odyssey, you know who you are :)

The link is several posts in one, imported from blogger when I switched over to typepad. The first entry is at the bottom, though "Lost and Found" near the top remains my favorite. Yeah.

How far have you come? What birthday are you celebrating now or in the near future?

Oscar

He lives with the family I rent my apartment from, but not really. He really belongs to the neighborhood. I often drive up to the house to find him sunning himself on the side lawn. I put my stuff down, slip off my glasses, kick off my shoes, and roll around in the grass with him.

He's missing part of his right ear. He has lots of freckles, even more than I do. On his nose, his eyelids, even his lips. He smells really good, like flowers and leaves and freshly mown grass. His fur is thick but silky. His claws are super long and talon-like, though when he climbs up on my tummy to walk around and give eskimo kisses, he's very gentle.

He and The Hoon often stare at one another through the window screens, but they never howl, never fight. Just watch, their eyes and noses taking in data we humans but dream of.

Bummer. But Not Really.

In a week or so kinja, the blog reader I've been using for several years, is closing it's doors for good. They were wonky a lot. I didn't really like it. But I knew it, it was comfortable, I was lazy about switching over. But now I must. Time to find friendlier waters.

What blog reader do you use and why?

April Visuals . . .

Sauteed spinach and local tomato and goat cheese frittata with millet bread and cherry jam. Mmmmmm.

Kitty Kat's 1st herb garden. Cruddy pic, lovely plants. Yes, three kinds of basil :)

Myra, our resident incontinent senior. I love Granny M. She gives good pirate smooches.

A salad so delicious I still feel misty at it's passing. Mesclun greens, radishes, dill pickles, roasted sunflower and pumpkin seeds, red onion, homemade vinaigrette, and all sorts of greens from my herb garden: sorrell, parsley, dill, arugula, basil, cilantro. (yep, a few craisins made it in there too :)

No, do not adjust your sets. Yes, that's my latest addiction: Green Smoothies! New (to me) vitamix 3600. Add kale, bananas, strawberries, local honey, and whirl until liquid. Then add 1/3 steeped peach herbal tea. Looks like snot. Tastes like heaven. Yum! I'm having seconds even as I type :)

It's HoonFest 2008! Feel free to do the hustle . . .

The Great 2008 Western World Food Games Begin

I don't know about you guys, but my eyes have begun bulging as I reach for my wallet to pay for groceries each week. I stopped by the coop to pick up a few things yesterday. You now how that goes, you go in for three things, come out with twelve. But this time, the bill was $79.12. For about a dozen things.

I sat in the car with my two small bags and thought: WTF? Pulled out the receipt and scanned it. $13.99 for liquid stevia. $5.99 for spelt bread. $4.99 for a carton of local strawberries. $5.69 for a jar of canola mayo. $5.04 for a container of local goat cheese. You can see where this is going.

And so I started noodling around on the net and found a few articles, none of them that surprising of course, what with the inevitable kaboom happening with oil prices and the stoopidity occurring within the financial world. But I thought I'd pass along something practical to you nice peoples.

In terms of pesticides, all fruit and veg absorb them differently. Eating a commercial peach or apple is like popping the top on a jug of Ortho Weed-B-Gone Max Weed Killer and licking the lid clean. But others, not so much. Here's a short list of relatively safe produce to buy in the grocery store or at (non-organic) farm markets that will save you a few bucks:

(In order of least amount of pesticide load)
- onions (very, very low)
- avocados (also, really low)
- froz corn
- pineapples
- mango
- froz peas
- asparagus
- kiwi
- bananas
- cabbage
- broccoli

Of course, this doesn't take into account the mineral content/vibrancy of the soil, or the oil load/carbon footprint it took to get it to you (buy local!!!) - just pesticides, but it's good to know.

Links to some articles, reports:
Environmental Working Group

Strategic Spending

Sticker Shock in the Organic Aisle

WWWF (of love)

Riding my bike home from the gym. The sunshine is brilliant. The air warm, just a touch of zing in it. The sweat pours down my face. My ipod sings sweet fierce songs, ala P!nk and Ben Lee and Stuart Davis and Eric Martin. I pass other folks out getting their sweat on and we grin at each other like the blissed-out idiots we are.

I get this rush of gratefulness. For all the folks I've known. The teachers. The exes. I think of all the things they taught me, showed me. I think of the things that felt like negativity, cruelty, heartbreak at the time, how they turned out to be lifelines for truth: Waking Up, righteous bitch-slap style. And I feel such love for them, those people I loved once, who loved me. I still love them. Wouldn't let them back into my living for all the gluten-free cupcakes in the world :) But so glad for the gifts of their presence, their energy, when they were.

Isn't it funny how Life always brings us exactly what we need? So rarely do we get what we want (thank goddess) but always, always we get what we need . . .

Eternal Sunshine

No, we don't get to keep any of it . . .

Kaboom

A horrible, horrible night. But really, what did I expect? At some point, all students play Kill The Teacher. And tonight was just a ringing blow, a nice, big, loud follow up to all the little jabs over the course of several months.

It goes with the territory, I know. And lord knows I've given my past teachers Holy Frakkin Hell. So I absolutely deserved what I got, absolutely needed to experience the flip side to balance the scales a little. And I might even do a little jig of Well We're Glad That's Over, if it were really over. Oh, but, no. They are just ramping up. The shit: it inches closer to the fan. The Big One: midway to the bite.

Because what's really happening is a power struggle for the class. And the part of me that abhors spiritual airy fairy mental mastur*bation bullshit came screaming out of the corner I make her sit in for these classes. Because usually I have compassion for the fact folks don't know any better. Aren't far enough along in the waking up game. Eyes aren't open enough. The grip on the fantasy projection hasn't been loosened enough. They still want to believe, desperately need to believe, that they are in control, that it's about the soulmates and the cash and the bliss, that the statement "you create your reality" means that you literally create what occurs around you, rather than the truth of it: you create your reaction, your response, and the actions you take out of it. And may I share with you how ever lovin pissed they were when I spoke to the latter?

Yep, kill the teacher. Not quite as phun as kill da wabbit, but it'll do. This teacher gig is keeping the arrogance alive in me, or rather I can't figure out how to both teach spirituality and kill it at the same time. Or maybe it's both. Though it could be neither. I just get that tonight the death knell sounded and it's simply a matter of time before I'm lynched for killing off Soulmates and Prosperity and The Secret and the always popular Enlightenment Via Gumflapping . . .

Draft

Just hanging out here at the hacienda waiting for the Bee Master to swing by and pick me up for an afternoon at the bee yard checking hives and queens to see who's ready to be sold to future beekeepers. Having a Bee mentor is amazing . . .

I went to the beeyard for the first time two nights ago. I'd got a call at 8pm: wanna help me put a couple of hives in? And so 11pm found me standing in the pitch dark, smack dab in the middle of fifty hives chock full of bees. And in the stillness, I heard them, a uniform, powerful buzzing hum, like a thermonuclear power generator set on low. I had on the veil, jacket, and gloves for the first time, and it felt as if I'd been transported to another planet. The Planet of the Nightwing Bees. And even though I was a little afraid, I was far more souped up with wonder, and groundedness, and a kind of gentle excitement.

And this morning I spent another hour and a half walking with my coach, this time at the beach, talking, feeling the gorgeous warm sun, the sweet sea breeze. I'm grateful for his good natured company, for the easy conversation back and forth. I've lost about 4 pounds, though it's hard to objectively tell at this stage in the game as I'm working out so much and so intensely that I'm putting on muscle, which makes the numbers on the scale less important.

Having a coach totally changes the game. I have someone who will ask me pointed questions about whether I had wine last night, what sort of workout I did, how the night time eating is going. On one hand, my weaselly mind does not want to account for anything to anyone, much less myself, much less a coach. And yet there's something in him that enables me to relax, trust him. There's also something missing in him, some sort of hard, tough, shoving thing that so many other health and fitness professionals seem to have. And whatever it is, it's working for me. I'm able a bit more each day to face the walls I've built around myself with the comfort-eating patterns at night, the swilling of red wine so as not to feel things too sharply, the lack of intense exercise so to avoid too hard of a hit of what shape my body really is in.

So I'm up from 50 crunches to 175, from 5 mile bike rides to 6 miles, from 10 minutes of weight lifting twice a week to 30 minutes five times a week, from 20 minutes on the treadmill race walking to 25 minutes with an incline doing slow-running sprints. And this is all in one week.

Next week begins the next book edit. Too much going on the past week to switch the gears and headspace required to truthfully enter it's world and do it right. But in a few weeks, a month tops, it'll be time to turn it over to the editor, have her ferret out the remaining weak points.

And as I write this, I realize that a through line emerges: I have surrounded myself with really excellent assistance. The Bee Master is a beekeeper at the top of his game. The editor has an amazing pedigree including the films Cold Mountain, Almost Perfect, and Michael Clayton. And the coach is bringing his experience with his own 100+ pound weight loss, his ability to manage the emotional eating, his willingness to be in relationship, and his open heart.

And I think of how impossible it would all be for me without these folks' help right now. Not that they are doing any of the work for me. Each undertaking is kicking my a*s eight ways from yesterday. Each a demand that yes, the hours of work must be logged. Each facet forcing me to confront fear and inertia and walls that are sticky and funky and not much fun at all. Even as there is such joy present, these moments where I'm flying through space, the world, my life, and the air is so clean and sweet and luscious. Of course, it's easy when the flying is occurring. It's those pesky mid-air collisions that make a tough undertaking turn into a faceplant in a pile of sod.

Which is where the assistance comes in. In the times when I feel the weakest, I can tap into these amazing folks, either for feedback or guidance or simply to hang out in the draft of their spiritual speed for a minute or two. And to get the help, I had to reach out and ask and give something in return. For the editor, I pay her $200 to read the draft, give me notes. For the Bee Master, I give my time and energy doing whatever he needs, cleaning buckets, standing out in the pitch dark at midnight holding the flashlight so he can see where to place the hives, whatever is needed. For the coach, I do my best to help him along his path with the knowledge I have on nutrition and giving talks and connection with folks.

I used to be so afraid of the fact that I didn't have much disposable income, couldn't afford to do the things a larger income provides. But I've seen over the years that there are many more routes than cash, and so often it means a deeper relationship, which brings a whole 'nuther level to the experience. We all have so much to offer, and it never hurts to ask, and the worst that will happen is we hear "No", perhaps with a haughty comment, but really who cares? Because more often, we'll hear, "Sure", or "Maybe", or sometimes even, "Oh, Yes!". Because we really do need each other, we really can help one another as we stumble down the paths of our living.

I feel so grateful these days. It's spring. I'm plugged in. The Hoon is very fluffy and soft. Jacinta gives me kisses every morning with her scratchy tongue on my third eye. The Carolina sun is so bright, so full of healing crystals of light. The luscious smell of wisteria and azaleas fills the air. And I'm more awake than I've ever been.

Who knows what an hour from now will bring? Who knows about next week? In this moment, Life gives the gift of deep breaths, the scent of possibility on the wind, the knowing that All Is Well, always, All Ways, and that Yes is still the sweetest word in the lexicon of being alive . . .

Woody: But Am I Wrong?

An old friend let me know about a friend of hers setting forth into the networld with a new "blog" (it seems like a cross between a webpage and a blog, so shall we call it bloggish? blog-lite? whatever, it's funny :) Over at ButAmIWrong, on the right hand side, click the post labeled "Alarm Clock". I enjoyed it, as I am allergic to alarm clocks and have situated my life so that I only very, very, very rarely have to be anywhere before 10 am. (Of course that often means I work at night, but that's a whole nuther deal.)

Anyways, welcome to the blogosphere, Woody . . .

A Little Help (Part 2) . . .

I have a joke in my novel that is ridiculously outdated. And I suck at jokes. Have you heard any good ones lately? Know a favorite you want to share? If I use it, I'll change one of the character's names to yours (minor one, yeah, cause all the major ones all have names that are drilled into my head :) Feel free to email me or leave it in the comments . . .

Oh Lordy How We Love Mark Morford

From today's column:

A survey of sex therapists concluded the optimal amount of time for sexual intercourse was 3 to 13 minutes. The findings, to be published in the May issue of the Journal of Sexual Medicine and then righteously mocked and eye-rolled and scoffed at and then openly dismissed by sentient sex-positive skilled lovers everywhere for the next, oh, 427 years strike at the notion that endurance is the key to a great sex life.

In response to this fantastic news, frat guys and Republicans and NASCAR fans from around the globe put down the beer bong/hooker/Coors Party Ball just long enough to let out a belch of joy and then quickly made plans to go nail that blonde sorority chick for 3.7 minutes of awkward fumbling and inept grunting before passing out and later marrying her and being freaked out at all the whining and weight gain and the decades of vague but palpable misery.

Meanwhile, the wives of these selfsame sex therapists were like, oh right, nice try, I don't care what a bunch of wimpy misinformed sex-deprived "normal" clients say, sure quickies are nice and lovely and the equivalent of a shot of sticky espresso, but if you consider yourself a real lover, a true appreciator of sex and sensuality and skin and a true worshipper all that is holy and good in this world, you will right now get yourself in there and you will freaking work, and you will sweat, and learn, and study and memorize and feel and explore and breathe and love every minute of it and you will come up for air four hours later with a wrung body and a tired tongue and a sly smile and a huge thumbs-up from God. Understand?

Yeah, dude, tell it like it is :)

Can we get an amen from the choir?