Choice: Safe Piece or Dangerous Men

I offered the Hollywood Writer's group either my safe piece or a story that was going to go in my Confessions book. The clamor was for the truth and as I read there was lots of titillation and tittering around the table. When I finished, Chloe, the otherworldly black woman said, “That’s the kind of book I’d pick up. I love to read that kind of stuff.”  The feedback was all positive, as expected, because in the two months I’d been in the group I’d never heard a negative comment, just bits of information that needed clarity being pointed out. Nothing was unclear. My piece started an entire conversation about dating dangerous men. After about 10 minutes, when it seemed there was finally a lull in the boisterous conversation, I got up and went to the bathroom, apologizing while leaving to the woman on my left that I would miss the beginning of her piece.

When I returned three minutes later, someone in the group asked me as I placed my butt back on the seat, “What is ‘chick lit’ and when did it start?” Another five minutes went on before the next gal read her piece.

My mind was a blank. Before I read my piece there was little anyone read that kept my attention. Self-obsessed I am but when something grabs me, it gets me solid. Nothing else that day had done so. After the reaction my piece received, the encouragement to plaster publishing houses and agencies alike with my work in progress, I was awash in a glow of warmth. I couldn’t hear a word the remaining two writers read of their ongoing stories.

Ellen, the octogenarian petite woman who was one of the founders of the group suggested we spend the last writing exercise exploring what the group means to us. She was the last to read hers aloud. She prefaced her piece saying, “You’re not going to like this.” She wrote about how great the group used to be... then stated she didn’t understand the “...inordinate amount of attention spent on Lisa’s piece...” I was taken aback. Conversation ensued, some agreeing that the group had become more therapy oriented. Not because of my piece, but the conversation about the neighbor’s rape and ensuing neediness for attention. 

After group ended, three of the women came up to me and said I shouldn’t take offense to her singling me out. “Please bring more of your ‘unsafe’ writing to the group.” I approached the battleax and said, “Ellen, I’m sorry if my writing upset you. As you know I prefaced my piece with the option that I could either read a safe piece, or a piece from my book. I was asked to read the latter. Was it my piece you objected to or the fact that so much time was taken up talking about it?”

She took a minute to think it over, then replied, “It was the time spent talking about it.”  In front of the other women I offered to read safe pieces if it bothered her too much. She thanked me for that concession. The other women insisted I not edit myself on her account.

Mary’s response was: “That’s what you will find when you go public with your work. Many will love it and clamor for more, a small minority will attempt to shut it down.”

Marc said, “That’s great feedback. The more talk the better. A good inducement to get busy.”

In writing this up I’m tempted to not show next week and see if anyone calls me to invite me back.

ANYONE CAN SAY ANYTHING

On April Fool’s in 2005 I received a wink from a “financially secure and successful businessman in the arts and entertainment profession,” who treasures his “reputation for integrity and consistency.” I wrote back thanking him for the wink, “A man of integrity in the industry? Isn’t that almost a misnomer?” I was joking and somewhat rude. He didn’t write back for almost a week.

When I heard from him he wrote, “The easy way for us is to talk.” He supplied his phone number. I don’t usually call the man, but this time I called immediately.  Even though he had a few calls that interrupted our long conversation and he was distracted for a time with his small pack of big dogs, we proceeded through two hours never at a loss for words or with one uncomfortable pause. I soon felt as if I knew the man. Knew how he chose to live his life and how he was wishing to change certain things.

At 51 he’d never married. Yet, for the first time in his life he was actually open to meeting someone he could grow with and develop a relationship that would last. I can relate to that. Born of Jewish parents, like I am myself, he doesn’t practice or even consider himself slightly religious. He’d had many businesses over the years and now dealt primarily with numerous apartment buildings he owned and rented out.

He was a man of confidence and positive affirmation. He said, “I don’t like to dwell on the down side. I always see the upside. Life is too short to let things get me down.” Having a tendency to overanalyze, I always find that “sunny side” POV refreshing, and wish it would rub off on me.

I’ve often wondered why I feel safe with Jewish men. Most my life I’ve noticed this. It’s almost as if just the fact they had a Jewish mother made me think they’d do nothing to abuse me. I’m speaking about physical abuse … the concept of other forms of abuse I’m still working through.

I suppose because there were three Jewish Y chromosomes in the home in which I was raised… and a large group of Jewish men with whom I am related, all absolutely “reformed,” this particular breed of man is comfortably familiar.  The focused confidence with money and status was such a large part of the men who surrounded me during my formative years; I still find it draws me forward.

His voice was friendly. The way our conversation meandered on and on, it was much like a conversation I might have with a girlfriend. We talked about the Hollywood system, what kind of a man Steve McQueen was (he knew him professionally and personally), who was aging well and who wasn’t, exactly where the Hollywood colony was in Palm Springs. He shared with me what hand his family had in bringing out one of the studios from New York and how they were heavily involved with B movies.  I’ve always found this kind of chitchat fascinating.  He told me about some of the movies he did stunt work in and some of the parties he’d been to and planned over the decades. I did think it was strange that he wasn’t an executive in a studio, but I didn’t pursue my curiosity at this point.

The conversation took a turn when we started discussing that we both had a tendency to eat late at night.  We both enjoyed exercise, and knew the difference between clean and dirty food. We both appreciated greens, which I discovered as he was steaming Edamame for a late snack. We both admitted to having paunches. I claimed a protruding two-inch tire, he hinted about something the size of a baseball residing somewhere above his belt.

He seemed meticulous like my mom, and had a Mensa kind of mind like my dad. By this point in the conversation I was sitting with my feet up on the desk. I wasn’t looking through magazines or simultaneous reading the New York Times online. This conversation had my attention.

We discovered we both eat at night when we get the hungriest for human connection. In other words, when we get horny, aroused, needy for touch, for play, for that which helps the human animal bed down and shirk off any frustration, for that which balances the energy of the day and prepares the mind by easing the body into the calm necessary to sleep well.

We were both animated when agreeing how important it is to have someone on the same wavelength. Then he said, “This is going so well. I believe in striking when the flame is hot. Do you want to come to my place or should I come over to yours.”

I said, “That’s not how I foresee this evolving.” I knew I gave off a relaxed attitude, but I wasn’t even ready at that point to meet him. I had been enjoying the comfort of the slow conversation and the somewhat methodic discovery of our similarities and differences.

He said, “Oh yeah, of course. You want a meal.  Whatever you want.”  I thanked him for his generosity and told him that I’d recently hidden my profile for the first time in three years because I wasn’t in that social of a mood. “After almost one hundred dates,” I said, “I was planning on a time out to work through some tough personal issues including my mother’s cancer. Since I’m dealing with such deep stuff in therapy I thought it wasn’t fair to necessarily bring someone else into it.” He told me he understood.

I told him I turned on my profile again the morning he winked at me. “Honestly,” I said.  “Right now… I’m focused primarily on my writing.”

He admitted he wasn’t a reader but expressed interest in my work… I sent him some of my two page stories. At first I sent the safe pieces, about buying myself flowers on Valentine’s and the three-hour massage. “Those are so sweet,” he said with a less than convincing energy. “You are really sweet.” Sweet? That’s all he could say? An entertainment busy body and he has to repeat the same word that means about as much as “interesting” or “fine.” His response certainly didn’t make me want to rush out of my comfort zone to meet him. Maybe he didn’t even read them. His response gave up nothing of who he is mentally, literally, or even emotionally. Maybe he was upset I wasn’t willing to meet him yet. That’s understandable. I don’t like to talk forever, but I just had something in me that didn’t want to jump for him.

After our little bump in the road, what specifically spiced up the conversation? Perhaps it was the hour. According to the famous Rules book written last century, a woman shouldn’t stay on the phone longer than ten minutes. I’ve always thought those rules were bogus and that male female interaction should be judged on a case-by-case situation. Plus, my main squeeze was in Seoul… not exactly a phone call away, and because I’d been forcing myself into solitude, I was a little hungry for attention.

As we were nearing our two-hour mark it was only natural that the warm camaraderie, the many things we had in common, a curiosity had been building which we both felt about the other part of our life and the reason we’re both online… to find a lover, a partner, a mate. He shared with me how involved in his mother’s life he is and that he understood that family came first.

Then he showed interest in the fact that I’d been writing stories about my online dating experiences. He said he was kind of new to the online dating world and was curious. I sent him three stories: “The Movie Man”, “The Professor.” and “The Predator.” He laughed as he alternated between reading them out loud and quietly kept repeating, “wow.”

“Did these situations really unfold the way you wrote them?” I assured him I only wrote non-fiction… that I didn’t have to make up stuff for it to be interesting.

Then he said something that shifted everything. “So, you’re kind of a prick teaser?” I felt as if a Popsicle had squeezed out from my right ear and dropped down onto my collarbone. It was melting and making the skin between my breast and the inside of my upper arm sticky.

“Those guys were jerks!” I said a bit miffed. He’d been so cool, yet having been rebuffed on his initial move to step up our connection to an in person dialogue; now he had an edge I didn’t like. Here I had exposed a small piece of my heart’s creativity and shared the voice honestly documenting my search for a soul mate. This is his response?

I quickly ended the conversation, saying I had to watch West Wing. He asked me to call back. Before I left my desk, the rebel in me sent him “the “F” story,” one story of mine that spelled out the antithesis of a PT, with this note, “You still think I’m a prick teaser?”

As warm as I’d been getting during our hundred and twenty eight minute communion, I got progressively cold during the democratic struggle on the small screen. Why would he call me that?  I almost felt like a teenager in high school when a boy told me I gave him blue balls.  I didn’t call him back.

I really wasn’t up for moving straight into home tours without a chance to sit quietly, face to face, and decide whether we had authentic energy or merely animal lust.

He’s a big guy, 6’2”. I like that. He’s independent and successful, never married, no major baggage, no kids. He likes the finer things in life but appreciates a bargain. Above all, there is a familiarity I find appealing when I meet a member of the tribe with whom I resonate. He thinks my writing will sell but it needs to be finessed and polished. That I need to add more of myself to it, what makes me hot, what I see and feel that turns me on.

I’m opening my heart to him and he’s calling me a prick teaser. I didn’t call back because that was not a game I wanted to continue to play. I have a feeling I’ll hear from him again but maybe not. He can’t deal with that much analysis and thought process. If it’s a fun and juicy erotic romp, he wants to be a part of it and add his penis. But if it’s a woman exploring her depth and emotions regarding sex, exit stage left.

When I woke the next morning I had the feeling a hand had been gripping my throat all night. I went to my desk and hid my profile. Having felt that dating was just a distraction… I’d recently hidden my profile for two weeks. The day before this man winked at me I unconsciously went in and made myself available again. Obviously I wasn’t really ready and was just too raw.

Plus, I was upset. To spend so much time last night enjoying this man’s confidence and knowledge of Los Angeles insiders, only to be tugged by a gnawing discomfort this morning.

I brought this subject up during my therapy session on the phone. Turns out my therapist had heard of the family name, and mentioned they had a reputation for giving money with strings attached. She asked me why the PT comment upset me so much. I said, “It felt manipulative. He felt like a power player in that moment, because he’s a man and he’s got money... he gets to manipulate women. I would just be one more woman he’d get to manipulate. I’ve been with men in that situation. They make you at fault.”

She responded with, “I don’t think he’s safe.  I think he’s a man who likes the power, and won’t share it. I also don’t like what he said about your flower piece. I’m really bothered by his SWEET.” She agreed with me that he was trying to get me to write more pornographically. I was kind of shocked when she said, “He feels really unsafe. There’s no way else for me to put this. Also, he feels like an abuser to me... Anyone who would say what he did so quickly and jump to, “Ok well, let’s have sex.”” Her comments comforted me and I was much more withdrawn when he called back that night.

I told him up front and repeatedly during the next 113 minutes that I didn’t appreciate his pressured attitude. The call lasted that long because he kept telling me how sorry he was, how I was the topic of conversation with his friends that night at dinner. His lawyer told him he was coming on too strong. He was really sorry and equally interested. 

I tried brushing him off by saying I didn’t think we’d be that good because he’d had a life of fun and I’m in a different, deeper place that examines internal processes more than just stacking up the fun. He said, “Don’t you remember what I shared with you last night about how much I’m trying to change. How much I’m trying to go deeper. How I’m not just being with whomever is around but really holding out for someone with whom I have that deeper connection. I don’t drink or smoke. I haven’t had an orgasm for over three weeks. I’m pretty packed.”

The sexual healer in me kicked in.  We talked about our genitals and our needs. I ended up sending him an erotic collage my friend made for me. He tried to send me a digital picture of himself hard but didn’t know how to do it. He came over the phone, but I was reading the LA Times editor’s email back to me. I ended the call and went to bed.

On Friday, driving home from work I picked up the message that he’d called me again and wanted me to call him back. He didn’t know who was calling. I was only giving monosyllabic answers at first; I really needed to know if he recognized my voice, and if not that, then my attitude or my humor. After over four hours of conversation the past two days I was certain he would recognize me, especially since he’d asked me to return the call.

After a minute, or two, he inferred that it could be any of the many people calling for his open apartment. I snapped back that a potential renter wouldn’t play hard with the game cause they know you don’t know them and they want to make a good impression with the potential landlord. About the fourth minute he was hinting around that the first initial of the first name was L and the first initial of the last name was G. He wanted to know if he got a prize for that. I said, “You get one point, but that doesn’t make up for the 20 you lost by not recognizing my voice after 242 minutes on the phone the past two days.”

He told me he was near my neighborhood earlier cause he had to go downtown. He’d forgotten to bring my number and his housemate wasn’t home, so he had to go all the way home before he could call me. He was begging to meet me. I told him I had to go out the next night and he could meet me where I was going. At the end of another two hours I gave him my address and said he could pick me up the next evening. After my therapist told me he was an abuser, I wasn’t quite sure why I gave him my address. I think there is a part of me that hates to seem paranoid because I’ve always thought my mother was.

After I hung up the phone, I decided to “google” him and discover whether he was all that he’d been telling me he was for the last few days; whether his family was involved with the studio, whether he ran that club that Hugh Hefner and Steve McQueen loved so much, whether he did all that stunt work. Was this guy exactly whom he claimed to be?

Shocked and surprised, the only thing that came up with his name attached, was a police department press release. In all our talks, he’d forgot to mention that the LAPD arrested him. He’d been the “subject of several criminal investigations alleging sexual assault, beginning in 2001 and continuing to 2004.”

I called him back immediately and confronted him. At first he didn’t know what I was talking about. When I read him the first paragraph of the release he said, “Oh, those bogus charges. I thought that was behind me. Nothing was ever substantiated. I can’t believe they’re after me like this. I’m going to call my lawyer. Thanks for letting me know about this.”

How can I spell out how uncomfortable I was? I’d just given this guy my address. Perhaps my displeasure could equate with being naked in a Chicago public park during the coldest windstorm of the year. I called a friend of mine who knows my deeper processes and has been a great support system for the past two years.  She said, “You pull this stuff in. Your stories are about this but you don’t see it for what it is. This guy is a predator. The less talk with him the better. You get pulled in for all sorts of reasons, but it is just your psyche side-tracking you. Look at this as a character study rather than a character flaw.”

Her words were ringing only too true. “Examine what pulls you in.” I told her about our long conversations and when she asked me what we talked about I was embarrassed to tell her that much of it was sexual in nature. She said, “You engage in something that is titillating. This guy was very good at sensing your vulnerability and pushing it. You, on the other hand, don’t respect most of the men who pursue you. This guy most likely is a sociopath. He doesn’t really have a conscience. He mimics having one very well. He can be skillful with words. He can flatter you in many ways and know it will get him what he wants. Ted Bundy was like that too. He got women enraptured with him and his little problems.”

I called the next morning and left a message canceling our date. When he called back I didn’t pick up. He thanked me for alerting him to the press release and asked me to call him back on his cell as he’d just finished golfing and was now off to a barbeque.

He called again, later in the afternoon. At first I didn’t want to pick up his call.  Both my girlfriends had said he’s a “sociopath” and Dad said, “You’ve had three warnings.” But I picked it up. He didn’t try to talk me into meeting with him. He wished me well. I tried to get him to explain the whole thing. He said he was set up. A woman he had been living with him had pilfered through his bank accounts and got caught. She ended up in jail. Suddenly there was a woman seeking a room to live in. She’d said she was a dancer from San Diego and had a boob job and said he could touch how high up they were on the chest. The minute he touched her breasts the front door was busted through with 10 cops. He was booked.

He said, “There’s a bull dyke that’s out to put me away. I’m a nice, positive guy. I’ve had women live with me my whole life. I would never hurt anybody. They made allegations that a woman came forward claiming I forced her to give me oral satisfaction. My lawyer legally pursued these files. They were never manifested. Someone is out to get me. When I watched the story on Fox News… it came on right after the Bill Clinton story.”

My head was spinning. Why was it so easy to talk to the guy? I mentioned that his profile says he’s 51 and an entertainment executive. He said, “It does? I’ll have to look at that. My lawyer friend wrote it for me. He says I need to get out there and not let them ruin my life. Yet I’m totally susceptible to any woman who wants to claim a civil case against me with these files open.”

I said, “So why would your lawyer be trying to get you dating and open for that kind of potential legal entanglement?”

The whole thing didn’t feel kosher to me, yet I knew I’d miss talking the easy familiarity with which we’d spent almost 400 minutes on the phone.

Sunday I stayed in bed watching television and eating sugar.

I didn’t stay disentangled for long. I missed his attention and was trying to examine what in me wanted the connection. I couldn’t see him as a Ted Bundy kind of criminal. We talked a few more times quite briefly.

He said, “I’m not a predator. I’m not Jack the Ripper. These people in the police department and the media are manhandling me. They feed off each other. My lawyer says we shouldn’t stir things up. But they’ve sent out people to question my neighbors. I say they should go after criminals. I’ve been single my whole life. I’ve always dated and had women living with me. I like having people around me and don’t like being alone.”

When he asked me to meet him for a quick cup of coffee at my local café, even though I had hesitation, I agreed. I wanted to see this through and understand it carefully.

I had my arms crossed over my chest almost the entire time. He was pretty much exactly the way I pictured him, but instead of a long drawn face he had a more cherubic childish grin. He didn’t follow my directions exactly and had gotten turned around and was driving west when I called his cell. I talked him back and noticed how short my temper was that I was distracted, yet again, from my desk. When he said, “I’m in a big vehicle, they have to let me over,” I actually got up and started looking for a pen.

                       

He bought me an iced decaf Americano and got a regular kick for himself. He described for me in better detail the entire police set up. How they sent over a woman with titanium tits in a very revealing blouse. How she was looking for a room to rent and his other female renter was out so he had to interview her. How she’d said she used to be a dancer in San Diego. How he’d offered her a connection with a friend that owns a few clubs and warned her of the danger when doing private parties. After an hour of this back and forth, the gal started talking about her enhanced front rack, which was purposefully on display. He admitted to me that he “stupidly” reached forward (he did so and acted it out with me, showing me exactly how he touched this dancer) and barely touched the upper curve of her shelf. The next thing he knew the door was down, he was handcuffed and escorted to jail.

                       

He posted bail and was out in two hours. His lawyer attempted to get the name and statement of the woman making the claim. He could get no information but was told by a “bull dyke” in the department, “I’m going to get that guy.”  On the day of the arraignment no charges were made or dropped.

                       

This man actually said to me, “It’s nothing and it doesn’t mean anything.” He explained his lawyer says they can’t sue the police department because of the First Amendment.  Anybody can say anything.” I shook his hand, thanked him for the date and carefully went home by myself.

A week later, right when I was finishing up the last touches on this story to read it in Writer’s Group he called again. “I just want you to know one thing… you are a good person…  and I am the same… all the rest is water under the bridge…” My patience with his denial had worn thin and no longer was there a charge of sympathy for this man accused unfairly or disgust for someone trying to pressure me. When he said, “I just go on living and deal with life as it is.”  I thanked him for the call, and hung up.

In 2011 a story was plastered all over the news that involved this man. He’d met a female entertainment executive through the dating site on which I’d met him, and bought her a cup of coffee. On their second date he followed her home where he sexually assaulted her while holding her down. 

This man who tried to convince me how he was changing his ways, was sentenced to a year in jail on his no-contest plea.

A BRAND NEW DAY AND ATTEMPT AT HEALING

Yesterday was difficult. I dealt with the kind of emotional mentality that was predictable, even repeatable. It’s like how many times does one need to get bashed in the head, or have a knife in the back, or experience a heart attack in the same veins and arteries without seeking help to heal those blood bringing vehicles.

I was painted black yet again. I was pushed beyond where I felt comfortable sharing myself, and then accused of doing it on purpose. The lesson is I didn’t protect my boundary and was punished for not doing so. The gift of the cursed experience is the truth. I discovered the game that was being played on me and can now move forward. I can release the past, release the caring and concern for another. It is difficult to give up that which is my highest physical temptation to date, but perhaps that is all it has been. It’s not like I really learned love and patience and caring. I learned to give more of myself but that was never truly appreciated. This was the physical temptation of that which is promising all the wonders and delivering too many woes. How many times must one repeat the process to realize it is toxic?

I move forward now. I will go put my feet on the sand and let the water cleanse my soul. I will walk a different walk, while getting the glorious sun on my skin, which is shining down upon us all. I will move back into a state of productivity and gratitude for the time I have to transform. I can still accomplish my goals. I can still finish my work. I can still heal my heart and give my gifts to those who have nurtured and nourished me. I need to be proud of my existence. I am the center of my wheel. Each spoke is a story I’ve added to the power of my roll. Some spokes have sped my movement and some have slowed me down. Each one taught me something along my journey. Both my brothers married early and made great effort to make better bad situations. By dating as I’ve had the opportunity, by exploring many different relationships, to learn that some are supposed to last and others not.

Each day is a new day. My body has had certain urges and needs that I’ve compensated for by allowing relationships that weren’t healthy for all parts of my being to continue when the demise of that union would have been better in the long run. I paid a price for that. Now I’m fighting for my life… it’s not the kind of illness that will surely bring me down any time soon, but it’s threatening enough that I must pay attention and streamline my ride. I must release all negativity, which causes stress to my body. I must incorporate new habits and ways of being. I must return to the calm baby who was curious about everything around her. She had no judgment or blame or little anger in the beginning. She was content to sit and learn, or had a way of showing her happiness with a delightful skip in her step. It is my aim to return to her and let her know the coast is clear. She can come out and play again.

This is the human’s job. To raise the self first, and then provide gifts for others. That’s my intent. I do have gifts to give but in the past I’ve forgotten about them when fighting in wars that weren’t mine in the first place. I didn’t come here to fight.

1000 Birds for my Birthday Moment

In 1797, How to Fold 1000 Cranes was published. This book contained the first written set of origami instructions which told how to fold a crane.  

                    The crane was considered a sacred bird in Japan. 

 

Japanese custom: Person who folds 1000 cranes are granted one wish.   

 

Origami became a very popular form of art as shown by the well-known Japanese woodblock print that was made in 1819 entitled "A Magician Turns Sheets of Birds". This print shows birds being created from pieces of paper.

 

  

                         Trusting one’s gift and making space for it IS the most beautiful expression 

                                                 any human being can commit their energies to completely.

Total flow, commence.  

The blue sky inhales into my organs, expressing health and lighting the day.                      

                                                                                Regina Spektor plays Samson as my fingers prance across the page. 

My 52nd birthday became the surprise of perfection when I'd previously been stuck agonizing, out of control, over disorder. After many years of protecting my ritualistic and solitary guided 1:06 pm birthday moment; I was instead breathing deeply, grounding my deepest connection into the core of this planet, with someone else in the room.

I was in the hands of a young, exquisitely peace-filled Goddess, a Geishi of the Facial. Her hands danced as her voice, shy but excited, chanted into my ears. The wings of her fluttering on, above and over my face, caressing my neck, the sensitivity of her touch to my nose and how she re-energized my eyes made my headache disappear. My hunger went missing. Enraptured, I surrendered, completely mesmerized by this JAP's ease in manifesting her gift. The JAP within me? Her equally intense doubt about what I'm worth, constantly evaluating my value by external standards, was silenced. My spirit was singing. 

I asked her, “What do you do when you are stressed out?” 

She thought for a moment. “I either do sports, or take a bath. Sometimes I do nothing. I need to compete. It is more fun.”   

Listening to her, being the focus of her vibrating hands, my upper corridor was ecstatically enraptured. I felt changed, transformed by her healing zone. 

"What is your name?"

"It is Chizuko."

“Chi, yeah energy… how is it translated?” 

“When someone is sick, we make 1000 origami birds and create a mobile that floats above our recipient in the hospital, healing their illness or disease.” 

My miasma of fear and indecision evaporated. 

I give great thanks to the Artemisian goddesses who chase after and protect me. 

Every inch of me is inspired. 

1:06 pm completely melded me together, all selves present and accounted for in my new mobile. 

1000 birds of beauty. 

I know how to do this. I should do this every day, soberly with a complete stranger.

This is healing. 

                                                           I am as clear now, as she was then. 

                                                            I still have 1000 birds healing me. 

                                                                  Such a Blessed moment

                                                                 I had to share it with you.

THE GUEST OF THE LAND

11/3/11    Re-Examining Options         6:03pm

We can get stuck easily, and unstuck less readily if we don't learn how to make a practice of it. When I was younger and had all the energy of my convictions to heal the planet, elders warned me that I'd soon lose the desire to do good or the belief that my little plot of good will have much impact. Unfortunately, as I was taught to listen to my elders, to be a good girl, to be respectful of their years of experience, I listened. I pulled back from believing that my deepest intuitive impulses, insights or inspirations were to be followed whole-heartedly. I did step off the beaten track, but I walked hesitantly instead of joyfully in the wilderness.

Now, at my age and in my position, I know better. I spoke today with someone I met when I was 17 and she was 16. I was Junior Class President. She was Sophomore Class President. We had our journals and were sharing notes out on the girl's softball field. We've remained dear friends and trusted guides to each other all these years. She's one of the ones who encouraged me to step off the path. She wrote me a poem over a decade ago about how she was the Mother to All Men, and I was the Guest of the Land. Today she said, You did thirty years ago what kids today are starting to do and getting criticized by their elders. Your stories would give them assurance that they are not wrong or crazy for streamlining their life choices to subjectively suit them and not just take on someone else's excuse of a life.

I shared with her that after reading Lori Gottlieb's writing in MARRY HIM: The Case For Settling For Mr. Good Enough, I had five fascinating men who were suddenly extremely interested in me. Gottlieb says that every year after the age of 35 a woman loses her power, allure, value in our society. Gottlieb chose to have a child before she found a husband and is now experiencing difficulty finding a suitable man she can stomach, yet she writes threateningly that unless we settle now, we won't have a chance later. She says at 41 her options are increasingly limited but they aren't as limiting as they would be at 51. This is utter and pure hogwash.

Karen said, "I don't understand why you aren't pissed off that she's writing this old fashioned dreck and getting it out to the youth of today as common knowledge." I told her that they were in the process of making a movie about the book. "All the more reason you MUST tell your story, write of your experience. You truly are a Guest of the Land. You are welcome everywhere. Don't doubt that this is true." I said that a guest is perhaps welcome for three days. "Do you want or need more than three days?" I admitted that after three days I need to return to my own self. She said, "Exactly. If you'd stayed on the path by now you would be on your fourth divorce. Instead, you are delighted to be valued and appreciatied for who you are and what you think and feel instead of playing a role that others insist you be for them." Just as I could have listened to Gottlieb and shut down in fear, I can listen to the American Cancer Society and do the same, or take what I know about healing and implement what I know will heal me.

Decades from now I can sit with Karen on rocking chairs in Ireland, all wrinkled and wise, laughing that we each made this life our own. She the palliative specialist guiding the masses into their next life, and my writing out in the world giving permission and guidelights to one's own BIG O.

Totally forgot about this place to post...

Totally forgot that I have this linked to my Huffington Post. Totally forgot that people might come here looking for more me.

I really must get more organized. Since I started putting up blogs @ cb I totally forgot that I started this site because I thought I needed this to be accepted onto the HP. But between the HP and CB I feel covered.

It took me 30 minutes just to get into this site again because it has been so long since I created it.

How many blogs does one person need?

I still have to get www.lisaguest.com back up and running. I took it down because I thought stories were there that were too private. It's time to get professional about this and stop treating my writing with so little respect. Top of the list for the summer.

Have decided it's time to perhaps do my more personal blogs here...

and save Huffington Post the gnarly details of my chemo. Still looking into the journal on CaringBridge.org. Haven't yet organized it all. But something to shoot for instead of bemoaning my silly fate. It's a challenge, not a death sentence, despite what others keep pointing out.

How Come Nobody Ever Says Anything?

I was in a spinning class again. I'd stayed out of the classes for about five months when a teacher was particularly snarky about the volume control. I'd put my hands up to my ears, motioning that the noise level was too loud. Her reply? "I don't read sign language." Twenty minutes later, I walked out.

But after five months of missing the kind of sweaty workout that is particularly good for my soul, I found the head spinning person at the gym and talked to her about the noise level. She assured me it's not that I'm getting too old or "unhip" to spin. She was out tonight and the 'sub' might have had the switch set to the legal limit, but was raising the volume on her iPod and then screaming above it.

I said something. I moved over to a bike farther from the speaker. While spinning my mind was remembering a recent condo meeting. A renter in the building had been so rude to the renters below him that my favorite couple moved out last Saturday. During the meeting in which the owners of those two condos were trying to get to the bottom of all the emails back and forth, the neighbor who had called me at 1:30 in the morning to ask if I heard the noise downstairs was afraid to complain as I'd heard her complain numerous times in the past 100 days.

The owner who'd lost her renters called me the next day and said, "I'm so glad you were at that meeting. If you hadn't been there, I don't think anyone would have said a word." She hinted that perhaps it was a racial issue. "Maybe everyone was afraid of offending the person in question," she said in her squeaky voice.

I don't know what it is. We complain about things under our breath but rarely take it a step farther to confront the situation head on and try to make it better. If we're rebuffed once, as my neighbor had been by the person in question, we often feel intimidated to speak out again.

Sweating away on the quieter side of the room, getting completely into my ride, I started remembering the concept I'd learned in a Political Psychology class at UC Berkeley. Pluralistic Ignorance. Person A thinks that Person B doesn't care. So Person A acts as if they don't care. Person B reading Person A also thinks they don't care, so they act aloof and uncaring as well. The truth may be that both A & B care very much, but pride or ego or saving face causes behavior that protects self instead of fostering communication or connection.

When the class was over, I was heading over to my bag near the speaker to get my stuff when a pretty brunette spoke to get my attention. "I'm right there with you on the noise issue. It's actually unbearable much of the time." She was a young, perky South African and she spoke with that wonderful accent. "If you bring it up to the head teacher, I'll stand right behind you because I totally agree with you."

I was really glad she'd shared her opinion with me. It showed me two things...

1. I'm not too un-hip.
2. By saying my truth it made it safe for another to do so.

As First Lady Michelle Obama said in her address to the graduating seniors of Washington Math and Science Technology Public Charter High School today:

"When you set foot on the soil of whatever campus that has admitted you, understand that you are responsible for your own experiences. So what I want you to do is own your voice. Own it. Don't be intimidated by your new surroundings. Remember, everyone else is in the same position that you're in. Be an engaged and active participant in all of your classes. Never, ever sit in silence, ever. That first day, raise your hand, use your voice, ask a question. Don't be afraid to be wrong, don't be afraid to sound unclear, because understand this is the only way you'll learn." http://twurl.nl/llzxh5

The Moment is Now

As a reticent child, I always tested the water before jumping in. As a young girl, I'd purposefully alter my looks in some way in order not to compete with other girls for boys. As a Berkeley undergrad I chose political science because I thought I'd have to write more papers for the English literature department. It's not that I take the easy way out. I don't.

My life has been one sacrifice after another. There is much I’ve been willing to give up in order to live my dream; children in order to give birth to books, relationship in order to seek and understand solitude, money in order to focus on what is truly valuable-sustainable-connect worthy. It would have been much simpler to lower my ideals, to set my sights on something easier, more mainstream. I couldn't do that.

It might have been more “fun” to take the Best Dressed award instead of Most Friendliest or Most Likely to Succeed http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lisa-guest/what-is-an-authentic-ante_b_178296.html. It is much harder to be a good friend than to decipher what the latest fashion is or how to achieve a look instead of show off a label.

Much more difficult to determine what is truly successful... and to go for that no matter the cost. It would have been so much easier to cut off parts of myself in order to fit into the corporate structure. But I couldn’t do it for long. It would have been so much easier to break the glass ceiling without the inconvenient emotional part already amputated. But I couldn’t focus on achieving when I had to leave so much of myself at home.

Instead, I came into each moment with too much emotion. Many labeled me "too sensitive." Early on I was told, "You think too much." It's not like I could stop. Like Madonna, I've always had a strong masculine energy swirling around my center core. Instead of moving out into the world to conquer it, I moved inside to understand what was there.

When I started this blog I assumed I could just deposit here pieces I wrote two years ago. Yet, since I've placed a few blogs I've realized that I must share what is happening now, important now, what is real now...

Life is moving so quickly. They (who?) say that more is changing technologically, energetically, and historically now and in the coming four years than ever before. What might have taken a decade to process in another century can now be experienced and expressed in a heartbeat.

I've always thought I had to be perfect before sharing my wares. Yet, I've never believed in perfection nor tried to achieve it in my everyday life. I've remained silent instead of voicing opinions if I didn't have valid alternative solutions. I've denied myself in a myriad of ways. Brilliance I produced prior on the page overlooked for too many years when memories of certain experiences left me with an ache or a hole or a wish unfulfilled. I left it on the private page and kept moving forward. Privately I’d tried to process, but I didn’t really know then how to move through a trauma drama.

Instead of honoring my process, accepting my emotions, understanding that what I feel is a blessing and not a curse, I judged myself as others had judged me; too this or too that. Instead of just being profoundly me. It's just me in this moment, processing this emotion. As if being me, alive and breathing in this moment, isn't enough to be grateful about.

I have a dear friend who is struggling. Who isn’t these days? He has the soul of an artist and can produce paintings, sketches and collages that anyone would want on their wall. Yet, he’s cut off so much of himself in order to be a partner in an architectural firm. With the economy STILL in shambles, he’s had to fire most of his staff. He worries about his job, and subsequently, his loft bought at the peak of the bubble. It is affecting his health. He is not alone. Millions in cities around this country are in his position.

So what’s my valid solution? I don’t have one. I just pray he and the many others, who have such special gifts to give to the world, might use this time to focus said gifts to express these feelings that are instead now causing havoc in the body.

I’ll leave you for now with this. For years I sought answers. In the Jewish tradition, why were men expected to study and women were only allowed in the bedroom and the kitchen.

Finally one Rabbi gave me an answer I could accept. He said, “Women are already connected to God. Women can reproduce. Men cannot. Men must study how to connect with the divine.”
If it is true that men move forward physically and mentally, and women move forward emotionally and mentally…. And that’s why it’s been easier for men to jettison said emotions and why women have struggled when having to do so… Maybe the answer is to honor our feelings once and for all.
Honor how sad it is that a major American auto firm is biting the dust and how that will affect so many souls in the process… but channel that sadness into action, into choices that will improve our future. Choices like Michael Moore suggested today on his Huffington Post Blog: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/michael-moore/goodbye-gm_b_209603.html.

We all must sacrifice to get to the promised land of peace. What can you give up today?

Changing Our Minds, Speaking Up For The Truth!

In May 18th's New York Times, Maureen Dowd talks about Cheney and torture.

"I used to agree with President Obama, that it was better to keep moving and focus on our myriad problems than wallow in the darkness of the past. But now I want a full accounting. I want to know every awful act committed in the name of self-defense and patriotism."

This, after now determining that water boarding wasn't used to protect Americans, but to justify invading Iraq.

I don't want soldiers over there to experience any more danger as a result of our moral cleansing of the beastly criminal record -- legacy from #43... but I was taught that the truth would set us free.

As a kid, I was taught that when I lied, I'd be punished. If I told the truth, I might be reprimanded for being careless but I wouldn't get spanked for lying. I'd broken my grandmother's velvet headband and denied I did it. I got walloped, not for breaking the headband, but for lying about it.

I'm always kind of hesitant to make waves. Once at Romoland Horse Camp the counselors took us to a spot up against a hill where we had to walk our horse into a small six-foot space in between two hedges and turn around. All the other campers did so quickly. When it came my turn, my horse (I forget her name but it started with an R) walked into the tight spot and just stood there. I tried to urge her on. She started to paw the water that was beneath me... I kicked her sides and got her turned around and out of the bind. The counselors laughingly said, "Do that again Lisa and see if you can get R in and out more smoothly."

I tried again and this time R really started pawing the water. Nothing I did seemed to get her to move. My anxiety started to lift but it really exploded when all of a sudden yellow jackets that had been in the water R was pawing, started swarming around me, seemingly hundreds of them that my horse had now disturbed and antagonized.

Somehow I extricated myself and R again only to watch the counselors laugh their asses off. They thought it was hysterical. They knew R liked to do this and because R was my horse for that two week period, I was the one tortured by the humorous annual experience.

Did I report the incident to the old lady who owned the camp? No. Did I ask to call my parents and get me out of there. No. Did I trust those counselors the rest of my time there? No. Was this torture? Yes. Did it hurt anyone? Could have...

My 8th grade Chinese Algebra teacher once locked us in our classroom, closed all the windows and turned on the heat. This was the last week of school. It was June. It was already a hot day. When we started to complain that it wasn't fair, Mrs. W said "Life isn't fair. Get used to it."

Was that torture? Yep. Was she brought down by it? Nope. Did we learn anything from our discomfort? Not really...

If life is indeed about learning... If life is indeed about healing... If those of us who are here to do those two things believe in peace and make steps to seek and find peace, our mental alignment and calibration will simultaneously lift those in the business of greed that continue to escalate the differences and the violence. It comes down to power... use and abuse of power.

In retrospect, reporting both incidences in my early life, might have saved other unknowing campers/students from similar scary experiences. Was it fair or nice or necessary to threaten safety and cause discomfort? Did these counselors and this teacher get something out of abusing others? In the moment they did. But was it right? I bet they don't remember their behavior but many of us kids did. Had we reported their misconduct, they might be remembering it too and thinking before doing it again.

My therapist wanted me to write a blog about torture weeks ago. I resisted. I'm not an abuse specialist. She is. She said, "We heal by owning and acknowledging our mistakes." The more we hide, the more we have reason to hide and the more such treacherous thinking causes missteps and wrongful living. By saying, "This is what I did. I blew it and this was why. I'll try to do better", Then all involved can move forward into greater health.

Some think we'll lose face by admitting our sins. I think we just might regain it. We beat ourselves up, we sabotage our self or abuse family members when we harbor uncomfortable unspoken truths. What happens inside our own tribe is a microcosm for world politics. By fessing up in our own circle, we make it possible to heal that which is broken and wounded. By walking away, the wounds fester, eventually needing amputation. What's worse, a moment of discomfort in order to clean the wound and make possible, a healing. Or the continual lies that strip us of our souls and make us continue to abuse and therefore punish. What is your take?

Btw, apparently Ms Dowd lifted quotes from someone else...

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/05/17/maureen-dowd-admits-inadv_n_204418.html

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/john-mcquaid/say-it-aint-so-modo_b_204649.html

Body Payments, in this economy?

We use our bodies something fierce. We demand they work long hours with little sleep. We expect them to walk us where we need to go, release waste and huge amounts of toxicity (I'm not talking about recreational toxicity, but more along the lines of the air we breathe, the water we drink, the food we eat, and the power lines we can't escape). We expect them to behave like our toaster (efficiently), and give us what we want when we want it. Rarely do most of us do what our bodies need for such optimal performance.

Athletes know that along with their training they need to feed the body well and let it rest. They know the body is a machine, or a temple and they do everything humanely possible to elicit the body's best.

Stars, models, and celebrities who make their living being in the public arena are usually more aware of what the body needs and how to satisfy these needs. But often, these people and most of the mainstream population that wants to look like them think of body payments as a process that adorns the body.

For instance, in a nail shop, so many women will pay the extra money to have rhinestones or painted flourishes graphically placed onto their big toes. They'll spend oodles of cold hard cash to buy toxic materials to build out their nails into creative claws. How many women will pay that little bit extra for a chair massage? Ten dollars for fifteen minutes is nothing in the scheme of things, two Starbucks coffees.

I was stressed this morning... Feeling like a powder keg about to blow, the thought of going to get my toes done so I'd look nice for an important event tonight didn't sound appealing. However, the thought of someone's hands on my occipital ridge and rubbing away my anxiety was enough inducement to get me moving.

I know exactly how to breathe in order to download my stress, how to focus on touch so it does the trick. But rarely, especially these last few months, have I allowed myself the extra expenditure to "indulge." Even though I know that body payments which reconnect and make friends again between the head, the heart, and that which encases them is not an indulgence, it is not a luxury. It is the best money spent...

These last few weeks life seemed to be squeezing me extra tight. I'd forgotten that simple moments, like a quick chair massage, are often the difference between continued exponentially accumulating stress and a momentary readjustment, which realigns the breath with the body. The attitude with what is truly important. The soul with her purpose. I'd momentarily forgotten that something as simple as deep breathing while someone puts pressure on my Trapezius muscles could be the difference between experiencing life or being done by life.

When I had a full time job, instead of a car payment, I negotiated a body payment for myself. A massage therapist came to my house after her last massage and when she left, I rolled into bed. It was always my best night of sleep. At that time I discovered that if there were a three-week break in between massages, my body would begin to feel like a prison. As if my bones were closing in on me. Almost overnight, I'd be in lock up again.

Because of this economy, I haven't had a massage in many months. Today, sitting in that chair, focusing on my breathing as a man rubbed out my sore spots and stretched my arms in ways I rarely can do for myself, I regained perspective.

The reason I call myself a stress reductionist, is because I know how important stress is and the effects it has on our bodies; increased aging, disease provoking, illness enhancing. I know simple cures like certain breathing techniques, pin pointing trouble spots and finding an immediate solution, and choosing another option when something isn't working can be had without spending a dime.

I get more stressed than most people and as a result I've searched throughout my life for ways to release and reduce stress. Sometimes it gets to be too much for simple measures. But sometimes, like today, a simple $10 body payment did the trick and reinstated my body, mind, and soul.

Wide Open and Abused

April 13, 2009 - Monday 7:01 PM

There I was, on my back, off the ground with my mouth open wide. He had instruments; drill bits, probes, and needles attacking my internal flesh and bone. I had to trust him. Yet, I’d never felt so vulnerable. He’d been my dentist for over ten years. I’d trusted him. I’d had a sign that maybe I shouldn’t trust him. A friend I’d referred to this man for a cleaning came back and said, “He’s the worst dentist. How can you see him?” I didn’t think he was the worst dentist. I liked that he was relaxed, independent, and not stuffy or clinical. Maybe he wasn’t as thorough as other dentists… he didn’t take x-rays during every visit. He also didn’t charge exorbitant fees. I also liked that he reminded me of my childhood dentist who I had a crush on. Whenever I had a dental issue, I went to this salt and pepper full head of haired man. I didn’t go regularly. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t have kids. I figured if I couldn’t get myself to the dentist every six months, what made me think I could get my kids there without a fight? There I was, having driven over thirty-five miles to get to him, because he was in the old neighborhood where I used to live. When I entered the office, there was no one there but him, sitting at the front desk. I knew I had a filling in the back lower right of my mouth that needed to be crowned. I knew that meant I needed that nasty shot in my jaw that hurt so much. “Can you put on a topical to ease the pain?” I asked. “A topical won’t help you. The shot you need is about this long,” he said as he motioned with his thumb and pointer finger that the shot was to enter into my jaw about two inches. “When I have to get that blocker shot, I always dread it myself. It’s the worst,” he added, I’m sure, to comfort me. I mentally prepared myself and endured the prickly penetration. After all I told myself, “Grandmother could endure dental work without Novocain, least you can do is endure the shot.” A minute later as he was preparing something over on the counter with his back turned to me he said, “It’s never as bad as you think it’s going to be. Anticipation is the worst part of it.” “Why couldn’t you have said that when I first arrived instead of pointing out how big the shot was going to be?” I was perturbed. He didn’t answer me, only motioned that I should open wide and allow him to put the purple moldy material on the plastic tray into my mouth and bite down hard. While my mouth was practically glued shut he explained the many benefits of a new type of crown. When finally my mouth was free to speak I said, “I’ve heard the benefits. What are the drawbacks?” “It’s $750 instead of $550?” He responded very matter of fact. “Your wife (his receptionist) said it was going to be $500. Now I’m already anesthetized and I find out the price is at least $50 more and possibly $250 more? That’s not cool.” My other option to have the tooth done was by a family dentist for $1200. I didn’t think there was a decision to be made. He bristled and continued placing tools on the little silver tray and getting me a glass of water to gargle and spit out during the procedure. He said, “You do what you want. I don’t care.” I needed to get this tooth fixed as the crack in it was now causing heat and cold sensitivity. I didn’t want to have this shot repeated in the near future. I never thought of getting up and walking out or actually renegotiating before we continued. As he proceeded, the environment in the three-chair office was quiet but tense. I said, “This doesn’t feel good.” He said, “How do you think I feel?” I’d always wanted to know how he felt. I’m an empathetic person and I always thought this white clogged, blue jeaned man with a beard and a goatee was worth trying to understand through his thick accent. He continued on. I discovered he’d decided for me that I was going to get the cheaper crown since I’d complained. I’d been trying to renegotiate with myself that the more expensive crown was something I should have. Now, it was a moot point. So there I was with his hands in my mouth, drilling my tooth. The shot hadn’t blocked enough of my gums for him to go as deep into them as he needed to go, so he started to stick more needles into me. After the second prick I complained and he stopped, quietly proceeding with my brutal and bloody present moment. I didn’t know what to do so I just sat there and endured what I’d gotten myself into. I felt more vulnerable than I’d ever felt. This in the hands of a health provider I’d trusted and never felt uncomfortable around. I said, “After all these years, you know I’m very careful about money.” He responded with, “I’m not a mind reader.” The next thirty minutes were a kind of agony I find hard to describe and distasteful to remember. When finished I said, “Are we ok?” “It actually went better than I thought it was going to go,” he said with remaining hostility. “I’ll see you next week to glue in the crown.” Walking out I felt like an idiot. Why did I ask him if we were ok? We were not ok because I was not ok! For the first two nights my tongue kept tearing between two teeth. When I called to complain he said, “Just take an emery board to it and file it down.” A week later my new crown went in without a hitch. When I handed over my credit card he said, “How much?” Seeing my confusion he said, “We had a problem last week. I’ll give it to you for $500. My wife will have to take the loss.” “Huh,” I didn’t get where he was going with this. “She controls the money,” he said as he slid my card into the validation machine. “So she gives you an allowance or something?” I said remembering previous complaints over the years how unhappy he was in his marriage. “I never see it. I never need it. I’m always working.” When I exclaimed what a bummer that must be he continued the same old complaint. “I want to get out, but what can I do?” We shook hands and I walked away. I heard from a friend who has spent top money with the best dentists only to be undone by their neglectful hygienists, and also gone the route of Tijuana dental work she explained was cheap but unrefined. Neither of those options promised a better experience than what I’d had up until this latest procedure with this particular dentist. My therapist said his behavior had been abusive. He’d taken advantage of me, verbally abused me, and left me in a compromised position. I realized I’d chosen this dentist for personal reasons but our relationship was professional. I needed to judge him according to professional standards. Feeling dis-empowered she said, “You empowered yourself by recognizing what was going on, and by deciding to protect yourself in the future by never going back.” I don’t feel empowered. Now I have to find a new dentist.