Echo and Narcissus

Southwest flight #118, Austin Bergstrom to Denver, direct. Otherwise known as the “Hot Flight.” The Hot Flight takes place only once a year. If you board the Hot Flight, you are guaranteed to see some of the best-looking Southerners living in Colorado, those who – generally speaking – are trying to avoid adulthood as long as possible by hiding in the mountains. Why is this flight so damn hot? Because this flight – bless its hot little soul – is the faithful plane that carries all of Denver’s young, existential, musically adept twenty- and thirtysomethings back to the Mile High City after living it up for three days at the Austin City Limits Festival. The Hot Flight is the one afternoon direct flight from Austin to Denver the day after the festival – just late enough to let its passengers sleep in and grab brunch with friends before departing, but early enough to get them home in time for dinner.

In order to board the Hot Flight, and regardless of your particular level of hotness, you must have in your possession at least three of the following five items:

1. Cowboy boots

2. An iPod

3. A half-eaten Salt Lick BBQ brisket sandwich

4. A Southwest Airlines boarding pass

5. Anything written by Tom Robbins

Currently, I am possession of #1, #2, and #4, having had my fill of BBQ the day before. And while I love Tom Robbins, I’ve put down more high-minded literature in favor of some good old-fashioned self-help books recommended by to me by my best friends. Like my current read, tucked in my purse: Breaking Free from the Narcissistic Dance. (I took the cover off and shoved it deep in my bag this morning because, hell, I may as well be reading porn with a title as obvious as that). But just like crack, I can’t stop reading that book.

Unlike the beautiful people around me, I am feeling unpretty, but I’m banking on the fact that my brand new Lucchese goat-skin boots are hot enough to get me on board. I am exhausted, the good kind. The kind where you know you just spent a weekend getting all kinds of loved on by your best friends, and you laughed hard, and you slept little, and you remembered what you’re doing after all, and life just showed right back up in your heart, glimmering with all its shiny possibilities.

Current song, iPod shuffle: Basic Space by The xx. (I’m beginning to think that their entire debut album is about sex, but I’m not entirely sure yet, because it’s British, and sneaky. However, the fact that I feel slightly turned on while listening to it is leading me to believe this is indeed the case).

Current thought (back of mind): Why is it that we never see pilots using airplane bathrooms? Do they have special pilot bathrooms in the cockpit, or do they just go right before the flight? Or hold it?

Current insecurity (unspoken): I’m not hot enough to get on this plane. I keep finding mud in different places on my body from the festival’s rainy downpour. Is that cool, because I’m so committed to the music? Or disgusting, because I haven’t showered since yesterday?

I have plenty of time to ponder these things because, while I am normally the person who checks in for Southwest flights exactly 23 hours and 59 minutes prior to my flight – placing me smugly in “Boarding Group A,” also known as “Club Window Seat” – I was forced to check in at an airport kiosk today due to lacking a working printer at my friend’s condo. Hence, here I stand on the sidelines of the boarding party, waiting to get invited, entertaining myself.

And that’s when I see him.

Just to my left. Big brown eyes, scruffy facial hair, tossled dark locks sticking out from just under a trucker’s hat. I think I just felt my uterus flip. I scan his credentials: Cowboy boots? Check. iPod? Check. Half-eaten Salt Lick BBQ sandwich? Still being eaten. Yep. This guy is definitely on the Hot Flight. He must have noticed me tilting my head to see what he is reading, because he just looked up. Shit! I play with my iPod. I shuffle my boots. I am the ice queen, and no - I was not just looking at you.

Just then, a Southern belle flight attendant steps up to the PA and, with a sweet West Texas drawl, begins beckoning us forth in our boarding groups. (There go the window people, those overachieving bastards!) I fall into line with the rest of the Boarding Group C procrastinators. Once on board, sure enough, the flight is completely full, and all window and aisle seats are taken. As I near the very back of the plane, I see the very last of the overhead storage space, and move to maneuver my bag in it. It’s heavy and awkwardly packed. As I’m wrestling with it, a voice comes from behind –

“Excuse me. May I help you with that?”

I turn, and there he is, Mr. Fucking Gorgeous, standing up to help me situate my bag. He’s even hotter up close. I fumble a response, trying again to look bored and uninterested – like French women do. I’m sure I’m failing miserably, as a tiny bit of drool forms near my tongue. The only seat available to me is right next him.

“Grab a seat!” he quips.

It’s about at this point that two very familiar voices begin arguing with each other in head.

Voice A: “This guy is totally gorgeous, and unbelievably magnetic!!! He’s obviously into you because he helped you with your bag! Look at those biceps! I bet he helps autistic kids learn how to rock climb, and probably adopts lost puppies, and donates to all kinds of social justice causes. And he went to Columbia University, and has never been married, and is an incredible kisser! Get in there, girl!”

Voice B: “You’re smoking crack you freak show, and you know it. He only helped you with your bag because you have boobs. And, those aren’t biceps, they’re called arms. Everyone has them. He doesn’t do jack for other people, and he hates kids, but pretends to like them because it helps him get women into bed. He knows that he’s hot, and you are not the first woman to think so. This guy is Danger with a capital D, and if you want to lose more self-esteem in your life, yeah – go ahead and jump for that.”

I silence the battle going on internally, and sit. He smiles. We take off, and the Hot Party begins. Everyone on the flight is talking about shows, swapping celebrity sighting stories, sipping on Heinekens, and generally making friends with each other.

“Were you at ACL?” he asks.

“I was,” I respond, noticing that when I look at him, I seem to lust after his chin. This strikes me as odd, but it’s also something my friend Jamie would find hilarious, so I make a mental bookmark. “It was amazing, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed,” he nods, stroking said chin, which is making things worse for my uterus. “I’m Kirk,” he says, sticking out his hand. “What was your favorite show?”

And with that, we’re off. Swapping favorite show moments. Critiquing Austin cuisine. Comparing band notes. I’ve never read the book he’s reading, so he asks to read me a passage, and it’s witty and entertaining. He’s never heard of the National, one of my favorite bands, so I share an iPod earbud with him. He’s an Austinite, currently living in Buena Vista and working as a ski instructor (of course). He earned his bachelor’s degree in philosophy, but isn’t quite ready to settle down in one place, because he’s very Kerouacian. He likes adventure. He loves his family, who sound perfect, interesting, and supportive. He has theories about God and life and relationships. He’s looking deep into my eyes, and every now and then, lightly brushes my arm with his elbow. He’s opening up with such warmth and vulnerability that I find myself picturing us snowboarding together on the slopes of Vail, talking about literature and sipping hot chocolate with Schnapps at an Après-ski. Suddenly, I am acutely aware of how ridiculous this whole scenario is, and internally bitch-slap myself back to reality.

Despite my active fantasy life and hormonal freak out, I’m doing what I normally do in situations like these – sit back and observe this new creature that has landed in front of me. I’m listening. Asking questions. Paying attention to his body language and noticing nonverbal cues, such as head-nods, and smiles. I can tell that he thinks I find him fascinating, and on many levels, oh yes, I do. But not for the reasons he’s probably thinking. I am quite sure that I am not the first woman to look twice in his direction, but I’m also quite sure that he has no idea how on to him I am. I’m listening, but in my head, I’m camped out mentally on page 30 of Breaking Free from the Narcissistic Dance:

“The word narcissism comes from the ancient Greek myth that tells the story of Narcissus, a beautiful young man who becomes so enamored of his reflected image in a clear pool of water that he is oblivious to everything else. He wants to do nothing but sit and stare at the face that is mirrored back at him. Narcissus is not the only player in this myth. There is also a lovely young nymph named Echo, who is madly and hopelessly in love with Narcissus. Narcissus is the center of Echo’s world, and she tries unsuccessfully to get his attention; Echo wants Narcissus to see her and hear her. She adores him and pursues him, but Narcissus runs away. Staring into the pool of water, Narcissus is so absorbed in himself that he is oblivious to Echo. In Narcissus’ worldview, Echo is obliterated. Unable to look away from his face in the pool for even an instant, Narcissus ultimately dies staring at his wasting reflection.”

I know that in many ways, when it comes to the men to whom I find myself attracted, I am Echo. Truly. I keep repeating myself, over and over, and after a certain point, I’ve got to wake up realize that I’ve got no one to blame but myself. I decided three years ago that I needed to jump off the bus of total relational dysfunction, hunker down with God, and learn some shit about myself. It’s all been worth it. But I’m not yet where I want to be, and as I look at my new friend Narcissus, I sense before me an incredible opportunity. I realize that the next two hours of this flight hold a wealth of possibility for me in regard self-awareness. This man represents a here-and-now experiment I can conduct, and I intend to take notes. I am attracted to men like this, and they seem attracted to something in me. But I no longer believe in the randomness of attraction – that was one of the biggest lessons of my twenties. Attraction is never accidental. Like an unseen magnetic field, we all attract people – and are attractive to people – that somehow resemble of our families of origin. Attraction is generational, purposeful, predictable even. If we want to understand it and learn how to make our choices wisely, we must cultivate humility and self-awareness. Otherwise, we are destined to play out the very dynamics we resent in our parents; the very dynamics we swore we wouldn’t emulate. Narcissus, therefore, is not just the guy sitting next to me on my flight. He is the very representation of my patterns in attraction, and I want to understand this.

We continue talking, and admittedly, it’s extremely challenging not to get caught up in his tales of chaos and glory. One minute, he’s so passionate about something or some cause that I’m almost inspired to sell everything I own and join him in his fight for justice. But, the very next, he’s insecure, self-deprecating even. He puts himself down, says he’s not good at anything. I feel pulled to rescue him. As this cycle goes on, I pay more and more attention to what’s going on inside of me. Why do I feel so close to him when I haven’t said a word in twenty minutes? I become aware of a back-and-forth that seems to be going on – he idealizes himself, and then totally devalues himself. He’s confident and trailblazing one minute, then almost childlike the next. When he does finally turn his attention to me, I feel like the most amazing woman that ever walked the earth. I’m basking – temporarily – in the spotlight of his attention and concern, a brighter spotlight than any I’ve ever known. He loves what I’m doing. He loves what I’m reading, how I talk, what I do for a living, and which shows I liked at the festival. He even tells the flight attendant something funny I said, laughing with me and telling me how witty I am. But inevitably, he brings the conversation back around to himself, and I am kicked out of the spotlight as quickly as he put me in it. When that happens, I feel suddenly alone, wondering if he even meant what he said. I don’t know. But, inevitably, like lightning, his passion comes back with a new story or thought, and the cycle starts again. I'm being used to fuel his self-image and buffer his insecurities, and I know it. What I'm concerned with is, why have I ever believed that this kind of dynamic is OK?

Our flight keeps heading home toward Denver, and Narcissus and I grow sleepy and take a break from the conversational orgasm. Thank God. This is exhausting. I love that I can see this for what it is, because that means I’m on the right path. But I’d be lying if I didn’t say that in the midst of all this, I start to realize the dirty, nasty truth about narcissism is this: You have to be one, at least on some level, to recognize one. If I can call Narcissus on his issues, I have to own that while I’m definitely very prone to be an Echo, I am also, in many ways, Narcissus. Why am attracted to this guy to begin with? Because he offers me something that makes me feel good about myself? Because he’s hot and if I were with him, that might make me look good? Because he reminds me of my dad, whom I love deeply, but is also totally self-involved? Because we all want to be the center of somebody’s spotlight, even if just for a moment?

All of these questions simmer on my heart as we land in Denver. Narcissus – or, shall I say now, just plain Kirk-with-Arms – helps me get my heavy bag out of overhead storage. As we wait for the plane to de-board, he flashes a perfect smile, and says how great it was to talk with me. “Our conversation was deep,” he says, “and really refreshing.” Sure it was, I think to myself, because you did most of the talking. As charming, engaging, and sensitive as Kirk may seem, I know exactly how this kind of thing would end. I could fall for him. Deeply. For a little while, it would feel like heaven, and we would both feel special, known, and loved. He would be deeply intimate with me and share his thoughts with me, which I would respond to with grace and concern. I would "understand" the "special" parts of him that other people miss, and he would admire how much I understand him. Then, I would try to move closer to him, at which point he would be suddenly confused. Not sure of what he wants. Fuzzy. He would re-organize our relationship into something less threatening to his freedom. I would be confused, but respect his decisions, and then try and re-engage him. Inevitably, I would fail, and blame myself for not being to be the one to "fix" it. Because of course, I should be able to fix him, right? Because I'm special? Smarter than others, and able to realize what he needs? Narcissistic myself, perhaps?

Kirk asks what part of town I live in. I know exactly what’s about to happen. He pulls his phone out to ask for my number, the line starts to move forward. I flash my perfect smile at him, say nothing, and move right along, out into my healthy forward.

You Know It's Time

Many of y’all out there have heard me speak lately of wanting to “move on” to the next thing...in my life, in my career, yada yada. In fact, you’re probably so sick of hearing me talk about it, that if you could, you’d rip me from my office chair, shred my staff ID card and deposit me somewhere in the middle of Costa Rica with a farewell kiss and a twenty dollar bill.

I appreciate your listening ears. Truly. And while I love my job, it is so damn time for the next thing that I felt obliged to post something on my blog in honor of this mental process.  

That said, as I save my money, get my ducks in a row and cultivate this ridiculous thing called “patience,” here’s a little tribute to the ins-and-outs of chomping at the bits to quit your job and chase your dreams.

You know its time to start thinking about the “next thing” when…

…It’s 12:15. You’ve just finished your morning, and you’re staring aimlessly at a walnut in your salad over your lunch break. You’ve just noticed that only one of your walnuts remains whole and intact, while the others lie broken around him. Seeing their shattered and insecure state, you feel sad. You proceed to take a bit fat bite out of that whole pompous bastard, toss him back into the salad, chuckle at his misfortune, and applaud yourself for being the deliverer of such sweet justice. Then, you look around nervously to make sure no one saw you.

…Your frequently visited sites on the internet include your primary bank account, plus every major airline. You have flight search engines downloaded onto your PC in widget form, and they report deals to you hourly.

…Your personal email takes suddenly commands an insane amount of power over you. No longer is your Gmail account something to check every now and then throughout the day, no – like a heroin feign, you obsessively hit “Inbox!” “Inbox!” “Inbox!” waiting for that blessed little (1) to appear. When it does, hot damn – it’s Christmas. Then, when you realize it’s just a marketing email from Whole Foods, you water up slightly, only to return even more defeated to your email-checking obsession. Inbox. Inbox. (sniffle) Inbox.

…You clean out your entire file drawer just to “be ready.”

…You have a secret list of pros and cons in your drawer comparing and contrasting the relative benefits and drawbacks of working as a lifeguard to your current position.

…You went over your allotted text messages last month, primarily because you feel compelled to text your friends on the East Coast every single funny thing you just saw or thought of. You possess a monthly allotment of 1000 text messages per month.

...You’ve taped a post-it over the clock on the bottom right side of your PC. It just hurts too much, and you don't want to know.

…You have already calculated exactly how much PTO you will have accrued in the next 3, 6 and 9 months. Based on these calculations, you’ve mapped out your travel plans for the next year, culminating in a round-the-world ticket heading east and not stopping.

…In heavy rotation on your list of daily fantasies is a dramatic and tearful farewell to your coworkers in which you announce your diagnosis of terminal cancer and bid them farewell for Africa, where you plan to spend the rest of your days dying in peace while praying for orphans and nursing baby tigers. As they beg you not to go, you lay a soft hand on each tearful cheek and whisper, “If you love me, you simply must.”

…You maintain 6-hour long ongoing IM sessions in between clients, meetings, and paperwork. Graciously, your friends oblige. "You still there?" you ask. "Yes, Jen..."

…Sometimes, you realize you haven’t heard anything anyone was saying for the last five minutes. This is uncomfortable, so you listen intently for one word that makes sense to you, and ask a reflective question. “So, Mark, it sounds like you’re feeling exhausted. Tell me more about that.” Then Mark does, and you breathe a sweet sigh of relief, having returned to the room from your mental orbit. You then proceed to berate yourself internally for being an insensitive assface, and worse - a fraud - while simultaneously nodding gentle encouragements at Mark.

…You realize you’ve grown neurotic enough at your job that you have some damn good material for a blog posting entirely on the subject of daydreaming at work.

To all y'all who’ve ever longed for something they can’t quite yet have,

Jen J

Here in the Feel

“Gostosa. You are…gostosa. I, eh, my English not good – I don’t know American word for this…But it is good word. Very good. Special word. Delicious. Yes! I think this it!”

Delicious? I’ve been called many things in my life, but as far as I can recall, “delicious” is not one of them. Delicious is a word reserved for quiches or a hearty bowl of pasta formaggio, perhaps a slice of white chocolate raspberry cheesecake? (For a brief moment self-conscious moment, I imagine myself as a cartoon meal, my head morphing momentarily into a steaming leg of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Gross.) But from the way Marcelo said it, I know he meant it as a compliment. I get over myself and quickly cease any attempt to protest. Besides, lying there on a Brazilian beach with my skin dug deep in the grip of cool sand, the moon easing its soft presence above, his hand whisking a strand of hair damp from ocean night-swimming out of the side of my mouth…I am much too content to get caught up in issues of translation.

This is 

a perfect moment.

Búzios is the kind of place that exists for and births moments such as these. A small peninsula about 100 miles north of Rio de Janiero, it is home to some of the most breathtaking beaches in the world. Once the stomping grounds of pirates and slave traders, the area was made famous in 1964 when French actress Brigitte Bardot fled Rio with her Brazilian boyfriend and “hid” there from the city’s incessant paparazzi. Bardot later released photos to the press of her time there, publicly proclaiming her love of its beauty and declaring herself formally enraptured by its fishing-village charm. The elite of Rio soon followed in her footsteps, and before long, Búzios became known as the Saint Tropez of Brazil.

It is deliriously easy to see why she loved it so. The air here is mysterious – a cool blend of salt, spice and sweetness, such a steady scent never still, for the wind changes its mind here the way the ocean changes its tide – rhythmic, unpredictable. Tiny diamond-stones flicker in the sand around my flesh, highlighted by a moon that seems to be whispering of all things here being precious, precious, precious…yet as accessible as my breath. I run my fingertips through millions of ocean stories washed up at my side, each piece cradling a unique history all its own. Alone, most are broken, sad echoes of a former glory, but together they create a momentary blanket explosion of color and form, born in the hush of a mother wave to live only until a new one comes to rearrange their mosaic. It is the steadiest of change I’ve ever seen. I ponder what they went through on their journey here, and suddenly, I am reminded of my own. I lean my head back on Marcelo’s shoulder and let its weight, both internal and external, relax into the strength of his chest. I close my eyes, part my lips, and drink in delicious.

I know of no other country in the world that so understands and values the beauty of the present moment as Brazil. When you meet someone here, they act as if you are the first person they have met in their entire life, greeting you (a stranger no more, of course, because they have now met you) with a slew of wet kisses all over your face. When Brazilian men eat, they attack their food with their whole bodies, focused on nothing but the explosion of each flavor in their mouths – insanely bright papaya, fresh mahi-mahi caught and grilled that day, seasoned, moist beef that falls apart at the slightest touch of a fork. When Brazilian women laugh, they bounce and tumble onto each other like drunk chickens, filling the room with confidence. If a Brazilian has something to say to you, you can bet you’ll understand it quite quickly – there is no such thing as Western “tact” here, and life is much too short to be lived with anything less than absolute assurance. When they want to know something, they'll repeatedly ask you the question at hand until they have received a satisfactory response. All in all, if Americans are passive-aggressive, Brazilians are aggressive-aggressive. It is intoxicating, dangerous, intimidating even – but I adore what it brings out of me. Being around this kind of confidence is refreshing, and in its wake, I find myself more in tune with my own.

Brazil exists in a tireless state of perpetual movement. Walking down a street in Rio is much like participating in a dance, a fast and sweaty samba that sweeps you – willing or not – up into its rhythm and whisks you onto the dance floor, spinning and spinning before finally tossing you out a short time later at your final destination. You stumble for a moment before regaining your bearings, dizzy and giggling from the rush. Music floods the air at all times, and no matter the impact of one’s puritanical roots, it is absolutely impossible not to move here. When waiting, I catch myself tapping my foot and swaying my hips. Ancient things in me are waking. My breath is faster, my temperature warmer, my hips looser. A subtle stiffness inside of my spirit is melting, and I feel not at all unlike putty. I become aware of a sudden sensuality draping my body, catching me off guard and drawing me into this culture the way lovers draw in their breath. A classically trained ballerina, en pointe, I seem to be tumbling from my pose of perfection into the sweaty sexiness and confidence of samba. This culture suits me, and I am enraptured. 

“Marcelo, this gostosa – is it a good thing?

“Sim,” he hushes. “Very good.”

“But isn’t that a word for food?" I protest. "Am I food?”

He laughs a sleepy, deep belly-laugh that tosses my head up and down, making me smile. “You Americans. You think too much. Live in head. In Brazil, we – how do you say? – we live in the feel. Feeling is better. You in your head all the time. When in your head, you are not here. When in your feel, you are – here.”

He points to his heart, the seat of all things that matter, and then to the ground, the present place holding the moment in which we currently sit. I ache in that moment for the words in Portuguese to acknowledge the depth of this statement. (I realize, however, that in doing that I would be going back in my head, which is exactly the problem I’m being called out on). Hence, I fold the word gostosa in a seashell in my palm and tuck it away, grounding my ankles in the sand, content in the company of the ocean and my newfound friend.

Neurotic that I am, upon returning to the States, I quickly return to my mind, of course, and do a little research on the word gostosa. It turns out doesn’t actually translate into English, there is no equally comparable word. To my surprise, however, I found the following enchanting piece written by an expat living in Rio, who beautiful captures the meaning of the word as follows:

“For a woman, gostosa means sturdy thighs, nice wide hips, and shopping in the “curvy” section in a store. It means ordering more than just a salad and water for dinner, it means rejoicing in molho branco, sorvetes, e frango e carne e vinho tinto. It means to love life and to have it show on her body, the ripeness and fullness of pleasure apparent in the shape of her arms and belly and cheeks and thighs. It means to have a hearty laugh that resonates in the bosom. To be gostosa means to be fleshy and sexy, to have soft skin and a warm smile. To be gostosa means to be delicious, to have on your hips a little something extra to hold onto. When a woman is gostosa, she wants for nothing.

Here there is no tiny skinniness, no skeletons walking around on the street looking fine. Here there is lovely plump, round, dangerously sexy flesh on the street–good thighs, good hips, perfectly proportioned with the rest of the body.

To be “linda,” to be “bonita,”– those are ways to say “beautiful.” And those are good ways, too. Lots of girls are pretty, muito bonita, ay que linda. But to be gostosa, that is a title not for everyone. In the States we worship bones and angles, shrinking into ourselves until we are just eyeballs and hair, colored and cropped just so. Up North we are tight and fine and tense and small. And trying to be smaller.

But not here. Here in Brazil, it is nice to slip into my jeans and feel them hug my legs and to know that whatever I was unhappy with up there in the North is alright here. Whatever made me wrinkle my nose about myself or frown with displeasure or dream about “getting fixed” is alright here. Is beautiful. Is actually delicious.”

Well hell yeah. Thank you, Marcelo, for reminding me that life is much better lived in the feel, and for teaching me that delicious is much too wonderful a word not to be used for people. Thank you, Brazil, for dancing in the face of all things tight and fine and tense and small, and reminding the world of the voluptuous perfection of each and every moment. 

Heather's Song

Before the stars began their glitter

Before the moon whispered goodnight

I was moving, steady, toward you.

 

Before I knew the scent of your cheek,

Or the echo of your laugh,

the Infinite held us

and our story

yet untold.

 

I have guarded the hope of you in my soul

With the gentle ferociousness

Of a creature protecting that which

Is sacred and most true.

 

Wisdom, in her perfect timing,

Held me in my waiting

Building in my heart a home for you

A place for us…

A home.

 

We were being made ready.

 

Had I found you a moment sooner,

I wouldn’t have had pockets

Deep enough to hold you

Or strong enough to contain the love that God

Breathes into me through you.

 

Today

I understand redemption

And the infinite value

Of every mistake

Every stumble along the way.

 

Tonight

Wisdom places our hands together

And clasps them tightly

in the Hand of the Infinite

The Author of our story.

 

He’s dancing with abandon

Guiding and wrecking us, beautifully, with Love.

Peace

Lately I’ve been chewing a lot on the concept of peace. Not world peace, mind you – that’s important, for sure, but I think Ghandi could most definitely write about that better than I can. I’m thinking of internal peace. Inner peace. Spiritual centeredness. The kind of cool, calm place that can stand inside of us, and if we dare, we in it – no matter what life throws our way.

It occurs to me that to walk and move in a state of centered peace with God is to be both 1) utterly broken in spirit, and 2) completely invincible - a superhero. Utterly broken because to be truly at peace inside means to be at the complete end of our own resources. One cannot “will” their way into peace. Peace is not something we win – it is something granted when we yield. If I remain driven by my emotions, obsessive about a given event, or introspective to the point of losing perspective, I am not at peace. Peace asks nothing less of me than the humble request that I strip naked emotionally and relinquish every last ounce of control, both real and perceived. In the midst of a world full of frantic inhaling, peace comes only in the exhaling, emptying ourselves of all striving.

(Yielding my spirit is no easy task. In fact, it wrecks me. Which is exactly as it should be, because it leads to the next part).

When a person begins to move and breathe in the kind of connection with God that brings inner peace, they become rebuilt - a breathtaking work of art. They are Shocking. An anomaly. Quite literally, a superhero. They may look innocuous, but inwardly they soar to the highest heights as a spiritual giant. No longer moved and controlled by the shifting opinions and voices of others, they begin to dance unhinged and unhooked from everything person, event or force that would draw them away from life and freedom. They grow rich in emotions and more deeply connected to life and others, but at the same time, increasingly disconnected from dysfunction. Their bullshit radar shoots through the roof. They become discerning to the point of psychic. Wherever they go, love, peace, joy, kindness, patience and calmness follow. That is how we recognize them.

I crave this kind of life. It's what Jesus looked like. 

If someone less centered tells a person of this spiritual caliber that they hate them and wish they would die, this kind of superhero will bless them. Not to mock them, but because their inner nature has become so aligned with God’s that they no longer need to defend themselves nor react to every whim of human emotion. This often provokes more anger in the person hurling the insults because in order to feel OK about themselves, they must control others – they feed on it. When this doesn’t work, there is no end to the manipulation such people will use to avoid facing their own dysfunction. Spiritual superheroes are no pushovers though, and will not tolerate lies, or negative energy coming into their midst. They have mastered the art of living out the truth in love. They bless, love freely with grace, and set firm limits at the same time. They know the truth of who they are, and no one will convince them otherwise.

I’ve been enormously privileged in my life to walk with a few such superheroes in the flesh, and increasingly I’ve sought them out to be trained in how to move like them. For one, it matters a great deal in my profession. But bigger picture, it seems to me the very essence of the Christian life - at the least the kind that I want. Most of my life I have felt so far from that place. Yet I still awake each morning with a burning desire to fight for it with every ounce of passion in me. (I have to laugh at myself in those moments when God reminds me that I don’t have to “fight” for it. I just have to yield. I fight and squirm and writhe and bitch, but eventually I yield. And then, I go where God lives).

I am nowhere near attaining the constant place of peace I’ve seen in my mentors, but I know where it starts. I’ve been visiting that place often. The Russian mystic Theophan the Recluse said, “To pray is to descend with the mind into the heart, and there to stand before the face of God, ever-present, all-seeing, within you.” As I sit in contemplative, meditative, honest prayer, I begin to hear the heartbeat of God and it echoes throughout my day. What begins in the stillness of meditation finds its footing in daily life – real life, dirty, sweaty, bloated, dysfunctional life.

It is in that space that I fall in love with God all over again. It takes a committed discipline to quiet my mind to get there, but when I do, I am met by a presence that ushers me into the courtyards of peace and burns so strongly through my spirit that all my fears and neuroses fall away like childish cackling chickens, powerless in the face of such holy Love.

When I go forth into my day from that place, I carry within me a pilot light of peace, a footprint of that space inside of me to which I return throughout the day no matter what comes. And it comes. But when I move with God in that way, I become like Neo in the Matrix - everything slows, calms, and stills, and I find myself filled with a power beyond myself, transcending the very things that used to control me. And then...

…It doesn’t matter then if a client disrespects me or projects their unhealed issues on to me. It’s not my issue, and I don’t take it on as mine. I am free to counsel them from that place of peace.

…It doesn’t matter if I am misunderstood or misinterpreted by people who think they know me better than they do; or if they do not like my No. I am not accountable to them. I am free to not react from that place of peace.

…It doesn’t matter if I don’t believe the things about myself that others are affirming in me; I am free to receive their words and love from that place of peace.

…It doesn’t matter if someone makes demands on me, blames me for their own dysfunction, or presumes an authority over me that they do not have. I can bless them and pray for them from that place of peace. 

I like myself tonight. A baby superhero, learning who I am, stumbling to the edges of the spiritual depths. 

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Lebh Shomea

I used to hold you loosely

afraid you didn't exist - or worse

that you did, but you'd leave when I needed you most

You did before.

Remember?

Or, perhaps, like all beautiful things, you were never leaving

just forming 

slowly

one color at a time

one note on the page

until I was small enough to see you

broken enough to hear you

when you speak now

     you

Command My Attention

with silence

with history

with wisdom

with truth

and when you paint

     you

Dance Over Canvases

with passion

with play

with freedom

with abandon

I rejected you 

the part of me

that knows

all I ever need to know 

in a moment

Now I listen

to You

as you teach me 

to 

hear

Me.

Anything

Blight blinking screen, I loathe you. You stare at me like a sullen, white canvas, and I have no paint. You mock me - a waiting, gaping grave upon which my words will sit for one brief breath of life before I destroy them with a thoughtless stroke of my right pinky finger.

I am a murderer. 

I haven’t written anything that I've kept for three weeks. My voice is trembling. Constipated. Thoughts have been processing, stirring, stewing themselves, screaming to be let loose onto the page. Instead of welcoming these words with a gentle nod of approval, I've been destroying everything I create the moment it comes into existence. 

Where is Anne Lamott when I need her to channel herself into this coffee shop and stop this senseless violence, this rampage?! I ache for her to materialize and calmly lay a tender hand on mine, hushing my panic with something like: 

“Jen, stop, dear. Just stop. You’re OK. Just go with it. You’ve nothing to be afraid of. We write to expose the unexposed. Most human beings are dedicated to keeping that one door shut. But the writer's job is to see what's behind it, to see the bleak unspeakable stuff, and to turn the unspeakable into words - not just into any words but if we can, into rhythm and blues. You can't do this without discovering your own true voice, and you can't find your true voice and peer behind the door and report honestly and clearly to us if your parents are reading over your shoulder.” 

Well then. 

Mom and Dad! I banish you in the name of Jesus! 

(Oh shit. That’s exorcism. Oops). Anne? 

“Rhythm and blues, Jen…peer behind the door.”

Well fuck. Which door, Anne? The one I slammed shut because the thoughts behind it are so awful that if I spoke them, they would make Jesus want to drink gin straight out of a cat dish? 

(Ok, fine! I apologize. I know you wrote that line. I just wanted to borrow it for a second. Geez.) 

Instead of rhythm and blues, I am scribbling jazz, crazed erratic jazz, cocaine-fueled jazz, the kind that gets so hot and bothered and nutty it ceases making any sense at all and implodes in on itself. My writing is ugly lately, and not just in form. It’s ugly in content. Ugly even before content. It’s ugly in the thoughts that give birth to the content. Birth of the Ugly. How’s that for a jazz album, Anne? Do you like jazz? Do you? 

Oh, I’m wretched! I’m sorry. See? This is what I mean. Ugly thoughts and meanness are spewing out of me lately. I know I shouldn’t take it out on you. And I know that you would tell me it’s OK if I do. I love you for this. The thing is, I know exactly why my writing is ugly lately and why I keep destroying it. It all comes down to one simple word: 

Fasting. 

I have been fasting this past month from a number of things, mostly related to comfort. This is a spiritual discipline I came to love years ago, but have not exercised in some time (which in many ways explains how I got in this state to begin with). Years ago, crazed to find God, I decided to ship myself off on a spiritual retreat to south Texas to hang out with some hermits in total silence, and without food, for 7 days. My spiritual mentor at the time was absolutely thrilled for me, and then kindly sat me down and told me the wisest thing I’ve ever heard about fasting: “If you do this, be prepared for what will come. You will see and feel the worst of yourself in ways that you never have. Every addiction and unhealed wound inside of you will surface, and there will be moments when the raw presence of that pain will consume you with a fear so strong that you ache from your core for the relief of death.”

I stared at him, blinking. The color flushed from my face. My visions of meditation with sweet old people and having drug-like transcendental experiences vanished. I suddenly felt cold.

“Don’t worry, Jen. You just needed to be forewarned so that you won’t give up. See, you can’t give up. The other side of this is the very freedom of your heart. If you do this, you will hear the heartbeat of God, and it will change you forever.” 

He patted me on my head and blessed me in the name of Jesus while I seriously considered scrambling to meet my friends at the bar for margaritas, in lieu of porridge with hermits. Fortunately though, I didn’t bail – and it turned out he was right. I sweated blood spiritually that entire week. I’ve never felt such a crushing isolation as I did in the middle of the night in that state. And I did go crazy for a few days, and longed to die at several points. But when it was finished - when the work was done - I was given new eyes, and my heart had been unhooked from about 300 pounds of unneeded baggage. I floated out of there, totally released from things I didn’t even know were controlling me. Those days also set into motion a series of events that are still unfolding to this day. But alas, that is another story entirely… 

And wow. Here I am. I just realized it. No deleting, no destroying, I am fully in my writing zone, that sweet space where my words have feet again, hopping out of my mind and playing like children in this white open space. I am being purified. 

Thanks, Anne.