Mark Rothko feared: "One day the black will swallow the red."

THE CLOSER I GOT TO RED, THE MORE CLEARLY I SEE LIFE & DEATH     

When most of my girlfriends were getting married the first time or having their first babies, I was involved with an artist four years older than my father. He had been famous in the 60s, when I was a young child. He had been involved in the Washington Color School, was an artist’s artist, had taught at the Corcoran Gallery, his paintings hung in many museums, and was still committed to Abstract Expressionism. I used to sit at his feet and spend long hours walking the streets of our nation’s Capitol, mesmerized by his Southern accent as he discussed many subjects he had studied and mastered in order to come to the conclusions he had by the age of fifty-five.

I include the story of this relationship in my book, COURTING ME(N). It is called The Artist: Painter of the Dancing Circles. Ours was a very brief union but it was archetypal for both of us. He was Pygmalion, I was Galatea. Being with me in his 55th year had him all of a sudden come back to life, paint again after many years of disillusionment, drop weight, and feel hope once more. He who had painted dots, or circles, inspired by me finally put onto the canvas thoughts of transformation inspired in him by The Tibetan Book of the Dead. 

I recently saw the play RED, which is about Mark Rothko at the Los Angeles Mark Taper Forum. I remember in 1983 Thomas Victor Downing was always talking to me about Rothko and Barnett Newman. At that time I thought he was telling me about three separate artists.

My last physical encounter with Tom was when he gave me the red painting (which looked like a red curtain going up or coming down on a stage) he'd painted for me called ORTUS. Ortus was the name of an Ezra Pound poem that had special significance for him, and he hoped for me. 

ORTUS

Ezra Pound

How have I laboured?

How have I not laboured

To bring her soul to birth,

To give these elements a name and a centre!

She is beautiful as the sunlight, and as fluid.

She has no name, and no place.

How have I laboured to bring her soul into separation

To give her a name and her being!

Surely you are bound and entwined,

You are mingled with the elements unborn;

I have loved a stream and a shadow

I beseech you enter your life,

I beseech you learn to say ‘I’,

When I question you;

For you are no part, but a whole,

No portion, but a being.

A few years ago I studied all the major artists via Netflix biographical films. I was completely taken in by the Rothko story. When I was twenty-three, I didn't understand much of what Tom was telling me about life, philosophy, art, the hypocrisy of consumerism and its effect on art. Tom left the planet twenty-eight months after I left him.

As I finish final edit of my book, as I prepare my web page to explain to the world my fifty-two year labor of love I know I have brought my soul into separation, but I still question if I have the technical ability to share what I've learned with the audience I was told twenty years ago is ready and waiting.

I recently did a Virtual Blog Writing Day with Denise Wakeman.  There are so many technical ways to connect with my audience now, that there weren't five years, much less fifteen years ago. There are so many who can do this in their sleep, the reaching out online and telling their story. So many of them charge lots of money to help those with selfish stories they feel must be told. But I'm not just telling my story. I'm telling many stories that will affect many lives. I trust that the right connections in the perfect moment will help me unfold my gift while I still have the time to get it out there.

Path Diverted.

I agreed to do a fundraising campaign for my book, and then, I demanded the campaign be shut down. While I'm a master multi-tasker at home, I couldn't quite focus on both finishing the book and beginning to push it out of me and into the world simultaneously.

My dead brother used to say I was a reluctant writer. While I write daily, I do so in private. However, it isn't because I never wanted people to read me but I wasn't sure of my self or my thoughts enough, since they certainly didn't follow the status quo.

The book is almost finished. I've been saying this since March 25th which was the date I wanted to be finished. That was a hypothetical date since it was Olivia's birthday. Olivia is my womanhood and since the book COURTING ME(N) is about our journey on the path of sacred sexuality (Big O's) and spiritual evolution (therapeutic alignment) I thought I could say I wanted it done in March and it would be done.

On the list still to put into the book is a tiny tale about soap, one about eight men, and one about seven drawers. I'd say another month and it will be in an agent's hands.


I'll keep you posted.

Going Public Before the Summer Solstice

I have a friend who said it was very important to get the book out into the world in front of agent's, publisher's, and reader's eyes before the sun turns back, and the days start to shorten again on June 21st. She is very astrologically educated and she has been right about many things in my life. Another friend told me that if the book is good, it won't matter when it gets into the hands of others.

I have avoided being "public" for a very long time. Those who knew me early in my life, knew I was very externally oriented. Yet, I believe I was born an introvert and after college it took me many years to reclaim my inherent nature.

This is a difficult step. I've enjoyed being a trunk writer. I've loved my relationship with  the muses, how they inspired me, and how I learned to write as they have dictated or instructed words to be put on the page. It's been a delicate dance, and one I didn't want to disturb.

I've often wondered if it wasn't about getting me out of the way, to let them speak. But I've come to realize it was all parts of me hidden, parts connected to full consciousness. My editor, Michele Fergus, came up with the term TEAM LISA three or four days before ABC News Anchor Robin Roberts announced her second diagnosis and called her older sister, the bone marrow perfect donor, and others were all part of TEAM ROBIN.

I hope you will become a part of my team. This blog, the most personal of all, the one I've been told is the least professional, is where I announce it first, to the fewest of readers.

My brother helped me put this KICKSTARTER campaign together. It was his idea. I didn't want to do the video. I wished we had come up with this plan eight months ago when I was thin due to the wasting aspect of my cancer. I didn't care that I was grey, or yellow. I loved being thinner than I had been in decades. However, that is such a superficial thing, and my book is not superficial.

Why don't you take a look at my very first attempt to let others know my baby is almost ready to be born.

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1601457620/courting-men-authentic-womans-quest-for-sacred-sex

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.

WHAT IS THE AUTHENTIC ANTENNA?

In certain cultures people thrive on conformity. A party line is formulated and chosen. Citizens are expected to enunciate and articulate the party line. For some that is a comfort, to follow what is prescribed and expected. It takes the choice out of one’s own hands. It’s easier if one can give in, without too much disagreement within the soul.

Some of this depends on how a person was raised. If they grew up in an authoritarian household, in rebellion they might flee as swiftly as possible from the expected status quo. Or they might be most rigid as they uphold conservative beliefs and close-minded traditions, in order to gain approval from their early taskmasters.

There are others of us who thrive in a more individualized world, a culture that encourages artists to flourish. Perhaps these people had a more open-minded upbringing. Their parents encouraged them to ask questions. Often times rare in this great land of ours, but present.

Early on in life I learned what was necessary to get along, fit in, and succeed. I sought and won awards. But the awards were empty for me because no matter whether it was Best Dressed, Most Friendliest, Most Likely to Succeed, or Hall of Fame - any adulation or public pat on the back never filled me up. Just like a desired toy, the minute I'd acquired the longed for product, something else on the horizon was more necessary than what was shiny and new in my own hands. When it came to the real internal job of loving, encouraging, accepting and applauding my own self, I didn’t have it, and I didn’t do it.

On the outside it might have looked like I did, but the more I walked the path of not only conforming but showing an example of one who conformed well with slight modulations & modifications, the more internally uncomfortable I got while standing on the pedestal, stuck to the spot where I was expected to perform.

I’ve tracked my life in a diary. In the many pages of my life, there has been a constant communication with the internal depth core part of the self, which is the soul, which connects me to my source. Even at the busiest times of my life when writing quietly off in a corner was difficult and rushed; there was the obvious hunger for depth I wasn't living externally.

When I look back in old diaries and read old dreams I was fortunate enough to capture on paper, I see that many of them were prophetic. What I caught and described from less conscious parts of myself, surprisingly and often, unfolded and came true.

This blog will be about my experience and exploration of denying that internal voice, that instinct as versus accepting it, encouraging it & living according to its teaching. I’ve found that when I'm not hearing my own instinct, I’m constantly seeking externally, trying to find what I should be listening to, learning about, espousing.

It’s not easy to listen within, especially as loud as life has gotten. It surprises and frustrates me how hard it is to find quiet spaces, to listen to that very quiet voice within. It’s hard to listen within when the noise outside is so present and overpowering. Yet much of modern life is that.

Driving on our roads, it's hard to escape noise. Most stores and restaurants bombard us. Marketing experts advise loud music to hype people up into consuming more. Often in living environments, rude unconscious neighbors think nothing of slamming doors, expressing their rage via their power physically release steam. Constantly, we are being pitched and manipulated, from every direction.

Some people can tune this out, but those people are often the same ones who can tune out their own internal guidance and listen only to what is expected of them. That’s not me. It’s taken me a long time to learn to trust this process within.

I hid my deepest self for years. I was frightened that the Moral Majority was going to come after me. On the IDES OF MARCH, Frank Rich in the New York Times hints at a possible 40-year exodus from "Culture Warriors." "Americans have less and less patience for the intrusive and divisive moral scolds who thrived in the bubbles of the Clinton and Bush years." I can't tell you, or show you via this format, but this concept has me both singing and dancing.

After finishing four years at UC Berkeley with an inspired focus on Political Psychology, I thought I'd work in Conflict Resolution. My excuse for not going back to grad school was practical. I couldn't resolve my own conflicts, so why think I could resolve anyone else's? Now I see it was a cop out.

I've since found the field of stress reduction. It's such a simple focus in life, but one that is so highly overlooked. Stress starts within our own self-concepts. What we think, believe and feel about ourselves. It's that basic and fairly simple to heal, even in these times.

For me, being an Authentic Antenna speaks of the need to be honest and upfront. For me, writing deeply about my process helps me clarify personal identity and social responsibility. Capturing momentary prods flowing through me necessitates I be real instead of artificial.

Antenna. Sending and Receiving? Yes, I do both. So can you.

I see as instinct. What goes ahead of me? What checks out the situation? What gives me a sense whether it is safe? Whether this person is on the level? Whether this experience is necessary? It's about knowing self, being realistic, having boundaries. Authentic Antenna. Join me.

MY IDES OF MARCH-here it is again!

I’ve always liked the Ides of March. It’s not that I studied Roman history like a fanatic and know the origin of the concept. I know it was a warning to Julius Caesar. This day gave a sense of foreboding to some, but not to me.

In my world, March 15th, signifies the beginning of my favored season. In most calendars, Spring begins almost a week later. Not for me. I stretch my favorites as much as I possibly can. I’ll take the extra five or six days and call them mine.

Having grown up in Southern California, I’m extremely spoiled when it comes to weather. My first eighteen years were lived in smaller communities with less smog. Closer to the beach, we had off shore breezes that kept the dog days of summer doable. I never thought much about weather when I was younger. I took our blue skies, subtle breezes, and colorful sunsets for granted.

During my four winters at Berkeley when the cold air would blow through my bones, I craved Southern California’s more mild climate. During the northern summers which were mostly foggy and gray, I missed the warm sunshine I’d never truly appreciated before.

Then I spent three years in the Washington DC metro area. Three summers with heat waves that necessitated successive showers each day, and winters during which commerce and activity ground to a halt during blizzards. DC was a fascinating city and good people were there. But the thought of facing another winter or summer made the Fall leaves and Spring Cherry Blossoms a slight attraction I could live without, or visit when the itch needed to be scratched.

I returned to Southern California, with many bags and books, my diaries and dreams. I arrived again in May of 1985 and proceeded to chase the ocean for a decade. First I spent a few years on the extremely wide strip of sand they call a beach in Long Beach. I liked looking out at the flat blue mirage a quarter mile away from my window. There wasn’t much of a scent or even a song that emanated from the sands across the street from my teensy tiny one bedroom. There weren’t waves crashing anywhere for miles and the little lapping of water against earth didn’t stimulate or calm me much. At that time the beach was a visual. I knew it was there. I didn’t dip my feet in it very much, but I liked knowing it was close and I could run to it when necessary.

I spent a few years in Huntington Beach. I’d walk in the mornings. Sometimes I’d jog on the bluff all the way from 20th Street down to the pier, walking on wood over water, marveling at the activity that swelled yards below my safe stance. I was there in Huntington Beach during the storm that fell the pier. I was at that restaurant just days before Ruby’s fell into the wet chaos. I didn’t have an ocean view at that time, but I heard the waves and revelled in their effects on my heart.

After many gallon views in Laguna, I finally found myself at Tablerock in South Laguna, in a condo facing north towards the pearl necklace of Long Beach. The waves crashed night and day, fifty feet below where I lived with a man who bought the condo to seduce me. I slept, and tried to write during the hours he didn't need me by his side to be his enchanting companion.

During storms the sound was deafening. During the full moon, the orb’s radiance danced on the surface of the sea, lulling me into many a fine meditation. Here I was on a real beach with visiting whales and dolphins, tide pools thirty yards from the condo's gate. The scent, the sounds, the scenery, was all mine. I’d made it. But who I was with and how I got there haunted me, making many a day that could have been happy, a time of tension and pain. I just wanted God to turn down the noise. Often, I rolled over and pulled the covers over my head because I couldn’t appreciate the beauty before me.

I’ve never chased the waves again. Now I hear the water is rising at an alarming rate. I’ve seen them swallow hundreds of thousands of souls one fine morning, the day after Christmas. Outside my door is a crystal clear day, the best of the best.

The creme de la creme is what Spring in Southern California is to me. Now there is more peace in my heart and I can appreciate every leaf, flower and billowing cloud. I don’t want to leave. I just wish millions of others would.

THE LESSON FROM LIVING A DEEPER LIFE

Strange how there are ebbs and flows to our emotional states, just as there are in the ocean tides and moon patterns. My therapist asked to slow down. I asked myself to do that decades ago. I was more corporate at eighteen than I’ve ever been since. I was certain I’d own a successful company, live a lucrative life, be bi-coastal and fulfilled.

Funny how reality presents a different picture. When I was most successful in life, winning awards and receiving scholarships, I veered off the health track and into self-destruction. The first poem I ever wrote was about the knot in my stomach and how the harder I try to untie it, the tighter the knot becomes.

Years later after many self help books and countless Oprah shows, I know it is the proverbial peeling of an onion, each layer comes off the one below it. Slicing away so you eventually get to the core, causes tears.

For me I felt troubled when having to don hats and wear masks for different groups. It was hard to be one thing to one person, and something else to someone else. Also stressful for me was the responsibilities success demanded. I hated having a highly regimented life, and yet, in my teens, that’s all I’d ever known.

Occasionally, I’d tell my teachers I was at a school district board meeting and I’d tell the members on the board that there was a test I had to take and couldn’t make up. Having fooled all of them, I’d drive to Sea Cliff Village, buy a piece of honeycomb, and sit on the dock with my feet in the water, watching the boats float in and out of Alamitos Bay.

I didn’t know it was stress. Even though my folks had occasionally gone to workshops and seminars on creating greater psychological health in the family, and we had family counsel meetings, I felt it was my job to be the success. My older brother got in trouble a lot. My younger brother was the brainy misfit. From a young age I felt I had to keep them from fighting, to keep peace in the family so my mom wouldn’t get frazzled. If I was the star, if I won elections and had the popular kids as my friends, my folks were proud of me and had something good to tell their friends.

At Berkeley I started exploring alternative voices within... but it wasn’t till I pushed myself through in four years that the part of me that was tired and needed a rest really spoke. I started a rebellion from success that lasted fifteen years. Pretty much anything I touched during that time was short-lived and preliminary. I couldn’t commit to anything or anybody. I didn’t want the side-effects of success; all the responsibilities, requirements, guilt trips or dotted lines.

It’s funny that so many years later I’m attuned to the stressful lives others are living. I ache for my girlfriends who have three children and careers. I hear that the word nap never makes it onto their calendar. Down time? Time for self? Time to ponder? Non-existent.

In the 2006 Writer’s Market, Margaret Atwood said she’s a Scorpio and a Rabbit, “happiest in the bottom of a shoe where it’s dark” and “at the bottom of burrows.”

I’m a four-planet Sagittarian which is a freedom lover from the get-go, and a Boar, “possessing a luxurious nature that delights in fine love-making” and is quite “magnanimous” to the point of occasionally get stomped on by “less-than-well-intentioned souls”.

The Scorpio and Rabbit go together; both are secretive. The Sag and Pig also mirror each other in their hedonistic love of sex and freedom and the quest for knowledge. Plus, Pigs love to nap. Just had to put that in here.

One of the quotes deleted during last month’s computer crash, talked about self-discovery as the most important quest in life. I’ve certainly discovered myself. Now, I hope, if I can just accept myself enough and give freely of my gifts as I’ve explored and defined them to be, I’ll be the kind of success I can be comfortable being. It’s about time.

PUTTING PROBLEMS INTO PERSPECTIVE

No wonder I’ve got a headache. The 605 freeway is shut down in both directions. Yesterday, the 710 freeway was shut down for five hours. My folks are going to brave the wet freeway tomorrow to get to the Pond for freebies and a speech by the new CEO, Robert Iger, with other Disney stockholders. Not to mention Disney stocks are down, FEMA spent nine million on vacant tractor homes that sink into the mud, the Saudis know Bush no longer has control of his party, the government or the people of the United States. Why shouldn’t the muscles be tightening around my brain?

Thinking that billions of dollars are being ineffectively siphoned out of the Iraqi Recovery Projects by corrupt and greedy profiteers with no concern or compassion for humanity. North Dakota and more than nine other states are actively maneuvering to dismantle Rowe vs Wade, just as the religious right has been praying. We keep paying taxes yet have borders unguarded and nuclear stations insecure. Plus, I had an intuitive hit about an alcoholic neurologist and one was arrested this afternoon in Oakland.

Some days I feel my upper most appendage almost throbbing like an ultra thick rubber band being stretched around Suzanne Somers’ opening and closing thighs. I try to sit quietly and not push myself to achieve something. I stay away from my desk’s books and papers. I try not to read something and keep my eyes focused and my mind processing. Instead I watch the tube six feet down from my feet. Just wanting to be entertained, I seek escape from encircling problems.

I know the Taliban is heavily recruiting again. I understand there is a banking scandal that is stealing millions under debit card holder’s noses. Only recently did I start watching the news. In the late 80’s I didn’t watch much. I was living in sight of the beach, rushing off to a job every morning, on the freeways daily, sleeping with someone I wasn’t supposed to be with because I was avoiding other people I was supposed to be with...

I honestly never caught the Seinfeld craze. I started watching television after my brother died. I guess that’s how my hopelessness played out. Losing the closest person to me that had unconditional regard for me... losing the man who could see right through all barricades to the intricately conceived jigsaw puzzle of my heart.

I remember driving him from Laguna to Los Angeles on March 11th, 1993. Remembering these last few hours with him, I can still feel the tightness in my chest as I sit in traffic with the six-footer cramped into the passenger’s seat of my little gold Mazda. I smell gas fumes. It’s one of those moments when I can’t make small talk, not that I've ever needed to do so with this brother. At that time, I was torn between two lovers, not meaning to be trite or use a cliche. I was heavily pressured to move in with the older of the two. He had a time line. I had a heart and it was shaking simultaneously with fear and rage.

I yelled at my brother, “You don’t know what it is to be a woman.” I don’t know what he said that calmed me down... but I was better after taking that ride with him. His depth, his kindness, his sensitivity helped me feel better. My problems didn't miraculously disappear, but they seemed more distant.

I don’t remember even asking him if he had any problems that day. No sentences of his professed doubt circle my data banks now. I was so self obsessed back then. Wait a minute. That’s right. That was the day he said, “You’re lucky. You don’t have to think of providing for those you’ll leave behind.”

Today I think of how these troubles on this terrorized planet personally affect me. Not too many of those earlier listed problems change how I’m sitting here, in this minute, at this desk, next to this candle. Having studied political science at Berkeley, having studied power consistently in this life, I feel responsible for all that is going wrong in the world. No wonder I have a headache.

Now what did that beloved brother of mine say that enabled me to put the problems farther out in front of me, so they no longer choke me and limit my breath?

BODYGUARD, PARTY, OR FAN CLUB?

There are people in our lives who are miracles, sent to us by God, or the powers that be, to guide and inspire us. Others come showing us other choices, other options, tempting us down roads that teach us much if we’re willing to pay attention. Whether a person is a good influence or less than an optimal persuasion is dependent on our motivation for connection.

Are we wanting to have a body guard, a party, or a fan club? Do we want the person to teach us, show us, or do something for us we are afraid to do for ourselves? Sometimes we think a person will be one thing for us, and throughout the time line of the relationship, they become something completely different to us.

I’ve been asked to write about a specific relationship. I recently received an email from a friend I had previously thought was a good influence on me. We studied massage together. During our three years of conversations we generally talked about healing emotional states, releasing turmoils and bringing on calmer states of peaceful and loving creative flow. I’d shared my challenges and gifts with this person. I thought there wasn’t anything I couldn’t trust her with of mine. I thought she was on my team.

Then this email came from her, telling me how critical and angry a person I am. How nobody can please me. That, of course, everyone lets me down, including myself, thus the reason I hate to leave my apartment.

Let me be the first to admit, I constantly deal with issues involving anger and criticism. It's daily work, releasing stimulants that invoke outbursts. It’s been a big change after having used food, alcohol, drugs and sex to numb myself for so many years. Dropping these activities that distract me from my pain so I can feel authentically what is my lesson and meaning in life, it's hard but someone must do it.

How do I live in society and interact with my fellow man when I’m so raw and in touch with painful emotions? So few others are willing to do the work to get conscious. When you find someone you can talk about this with deeply and then they turn on you, or it feels like they turn on you, it is painful indeed. Even though the day was effective, I did get into clothes and out to return library books and replenish groceries and water bottles, I was back in my flannel pajamas by 4 and in bed soon thereafter with a debilitating headache. Not able to give to another today.

She was supposed to give me my last massage today. But she bailed yet again and instead chose to bring me the $50 as she didn’t know when she’d be able to return. I gave her a card about kindness and didn’t write on the card that I felt she’d been unkind in her email, only that I truly appreciated her skills. I wanted her to feel good about her abilities as that is what started her tirade. I think she felt I was displeased with her performance.

I did let her know, as she was walking away, that I thought her letter to me betrayed our trust. "Your hostility, using my intimate concerns, was not kind." Last Saturday she said, "The mark of truth in spiritual growth is whether it inspires kindness to oneself and others." She didn’t think her letter to me was unkind or angry. What did I want from her as my friend, and what do I want from her from this day forward?