Ashram of So Not What I Planned

Three days ago I summoned my favourite computer nerd (also amazing friend) on FB to help me with an issue (and also to say hi). Before he would consent to an ichat chat, he asked me first if ashram was over. You see, I had already asked him for help early into ashram. Both times, then and on Friday, he was willing to help, but he equally wanted to support my self-imposed isolation. So, he did what a true friend does: he did both, telling me in no uncertain terms (when he was done fixing my computer problem) that he hoped not to hear from me again until ashram was really and truly done. So, on Friday, I assured him it was mostly done (only a day left), which is probably why he decided it was OK to ask me what I had learned on ashram (after first instructing me to down a large order of burger, fries and Pepsi).


[Thank you jgnly for this beautiful pic!]

Things I learned on ashram:

If there's one thing that will make me break a rule faster than you can say "rule" (pretty much on the spot) it's a rule. Especially one I make for myself. I won’t tell you all the ways in which I transgressed my own ashram rules because they will probably make you mad. But rest assured I suffered for it. Major guilt.

Which brings me to the next learning, and which comes as no surprise: I suffer from guilt.

Did my daily meditation help me overcome that guilt? Nope. Why not? Well, for the very simple reason that I did not meditate daily. I meditated once at home and once at a meditation centre I was testing out. I didn’t meditate at home because I got distracted by my unfinished book, which has been lacking a final chapter for over a year, so when the final chapter came to me in a flash within the first two days of ashram, I had to capture it. There was no time to meditate. You see that, don’t you?

By the end of week one of ashram, I had broken free to visit with two friends, one of whom was leaving town for a very long time, the other for my own reasons, and talked to two other friends on the phone who were in crisis. In all cases, I felt my decision to interact was far more ashrammy than sticking to isolation.

At the start of week two, however, I re-dug in, or told myself I would, determining to see and talk to no one.

Turns out I didn’t have to work hard to remain isolated because I got outrageously sick, so sick my kidneys hurt. Every day I was sure I’d get better but I got worse. By the end of week two, I began to wonder about the size of my brain because there is no way my cranium has enough room to house all the phlegm I was producing as well as my grey matter.

I am convinced my robot tooth implant is to blame for my worse-than-a-cold/not-as-bad-as-the-flu sickness. Or, more positively put, my body decided that since I was not going to slow down and let my robot tooth heal – I kept up my running routine even through relentless fatigue and robot-tooth pain – my body would simply make an executive decision for me. It got sick severely enough to put me out of commission until I got some rest.

The dumbest thing I did during ashram was step on my scale. I seriously did not need a number to corroborate what last year’s summer clothes are telling me. But sometimes we hope against hope. I guess that just proves I still suffer the samsara of delusion.

The best thing I did during ashram was buy a bike. A folding bike I’ve been coveting ever since riding Abi’s in Berlin last fall.

As most of you know, it pains me no end to part with my money, but two things made me do it. One, I don’t want to become like my renowned family member who only measures a thing’s worth according to its price tag (people included). And, two, because what else am I going to spend my money on, and why can’t I treat myself with some generosity (and you can’t take it with you)?

The colour of my bike makes me happiest of all. When I told the sales guy I’d take the off-white model, he told me it’s called, poetically, “cloud.” Yes, I am a sucker for good marketing. I once almost returned an xmas gift from an ex -- a watch I thought I didn’t like because, as I told the shop gal, the face was baby blue, and I am not a fan of baby blue.

“Baby blue?!” she said incredulously, as if I’d said my watch had taken a dump, “This isn’t baby blue! (you idiot!)”

“It isn’t?” I asked, looking at the colour again in case I had been mistaken, but it still looked baby bluish to me.

“Not even close, ma’am. This is robin’s egg blue!” And with these words she was able to do what my ex was not able to do. Make me fall in love. With my watch.

Ashram successes: My ah-ha moments

I have boundary issues. SURPRISE! That is, I am not good at maintaining mine. Often I share information about myself with family and friends in the hopes that someone will step in and set my mistakes aright so that I don’t have to. I am like one of those participants on HGTV who invites some eager designer into my home to upgrade my look and then I have the audacity to be horrified when I behold my new jungle-themed living room.

Why do I think other people know what's best for me? Here's the thing. I’m 41, goddammit. When will I start owning my decisions? NOW is when. From now on, my decisions, as misguided and clearly-headed-for-disaster as they are, are no longer up for grabs. That’s not to say I won’t share my stories with my friends. I will. I am never going to be the quiet, circumspect girl who hides her neuroses. I wish I was, but that’s just not me. Still, I have decided I will not solicit advice in quite the same way anymore because I think I finally understand that no one really knows what it’s like to be me, in my context, with my heart and mind, just as I really don’t know what’s it's like for others, or even what's best for them (although I have also generously donated my unsolicited advice whenever I have seen an opening. But that will have to stop, too, I’m afraid.) It's time I just walked my own crooked line.

I’ve had this realization before, of course, and I’ve failed to hold my boundaries before, but that’s life. You deak out for a while to regroup and it helps you remember who you are and what’s important to you. This is it for me: boundaries. This is one of my life’s works. I have a few other things to work on in this life, too, but they come in and out of importance depending on my circumstances. I’ll deal with those as necessary.

Finally, one of the best discoveries during ashram was Elliot Smith’s Either/Or album. How is it that NO ONE informed me of this genius before (thank you, jgrnly for informing me now)??????? If you don’t know him or this album in particular, go out and get it (or download it since he's dead)! I can’t begin to describe its perfection. The lyrics and tunes sound like Elliot Smith composed them on that lonely chair, in that wood-paneled basement, with that longing-for-its-master dog.

Oh, wait, one last final thing. Last Thursday, while weeping about my fire losses (something I have not done adequately yet, still), and at the thought that I am still not ready to settle down with furniture and my own home (which means the exciting prospect of travel exists, but it also means I am still mourning the life I thought I’d have by now, which is a painful loss), I got an anonymous postcard with handwriting on it that feels familiar but which I can’t place.

All it said was, “You are wonderful.” No name. I asked everyone I could think of if they’d sent it, but no one claimed responsibility. And then I realized – duh! – the sender doesn’t want me to know. So, as much as I would like to thank the person, I also know they must know in their heart how much that postcard meant to me. (Even if it’s from a stalker, I don’t care. The sentiment is lovely and I’ll take it, thank you very much!)

Ashram of Yes

Last week, my beautiful guru told me that one does not have to go to a remote retreat in order to achieve the ashram experience. “Your daily life can be your ashram – your telephone calls, your interactions at the video store, your meetings with coworkers, paying your bills, all of it, everything you do. What defines the ashram is the intention and practice of awareness, even in the middle of chaos.”

She’s right. Nevertheless, starting June 14 and ending June 28, I am officially “on ashram” for two weeks, which will involve radio silence on all my communication channels, except for work. I am not leaving the city. And I will be able to get your e-mails, but I won’t be responding unless it’s an emergency.

Why am I doing this? To recover my “yes.”

Some years ago, I came to a screeching halt at a picture of Susan Sarandon (in a magazine) in which she’s standing in front of an open fridge door, popping something yummy into her mouth. The caption read, “I like people who say yes to food. People who say yes to food tend to say yes to living.”

That really struck me at the time because I was not eating. I was not eating because I thought my food lust was responsible for my thigh size. So, I decided to take control. My version of control, unfortunately, involved applying the opposite of yes to practically everything, not just food.

Previously, when on binge tear, I told myself the irresistible nature of the crap I was scarfing was fully responsible for my loss of control. But the truth is, the crap was delicious only in the way shopping therapy is delicious: the highs (in the moment) are at crack-happy levels, but the crashes (in the next moment) are at equal-and-opposite crack-despair lows. The joy is not lasting, and the price you pay in health, spirit and karma depletion is astronomical.

Some people have trouble saying no. They can’t seem to put up boundaries, take space or speak their truth. I’ve been some of those people. But when I read Susan’s affirmation, I realized that “no” was now the only thing I was allowing to cross my lips. I was having trouble opening to yes. Yes to my health, yes to my body, yes to my views (especially if they conflicted with someone else’s), yes to my time. Instead, I was “hanrgy” all the time. I had successfully starved my hips into siren sweetness, but I wore the mask of Medusa.

I know a couple who embody Yes. And that’s what I love most about them. They see a yes even when there’s a No standing there, legs akimbo, arms folded over chest like a town marshal refusing them entrance to No Town.

This couple is not afraid of Marshal No or the barren, hostile town of No. They walk right up to Marshal No and say, “what seems to be the problem here, Pardner?” Marshal No may get all blustery at first, protecting the town’s territory, but my friends keep firing off questions that hit MN where it hurts: in the belief system, dismantling it one ill-conceived belief at a time . . .

. . .until MN finally breaks down and admits the problem just seems to have been there forever, without MN knowing how it got there, or why it’s still there, or why the townsfolk keep defending it so, lo these long, dry, dusty years. My friends let out a thoughtful, "hmmmmm," then brush past MN, who is now on knees, head in hands, while their arms sweep over the landscape and their voices describe promising alternatives for the town, engineering a vision of such beauty that MN perks up and -- what's this! -- begins to see potential! possibilities! and then -- what's this! -- starts developing a new vision that transforms MN into someone more yes-er-y.

I have not only been Marshal No, but I have embodied the very town of No. And let me tell you, No was devoid of attractions. (Never mind that my mouth was always full of grit.) One day I finally decided to elect myself the Mayor of Maybe in the hopes of turning the town around through sheer force of acting as if. As if my dreams could come true. Soon, the craziest of ideas grew plump and shiny on the greenest of sky-scraping trees.

As Marsha Beck says, it never starts with the right conditions – "if I lose weight, I’ll be loved; if my parents only made me do my homework, I’d have a career," etc. and so on. It starts with the right thoughts – I’m good enough, smart enough, and goshdarnit, people like me! – which then change the external conditions because the new internal conditions feel good enough to motivate you to make changes.

I know I often sound like a cheerleader drunk on self-help books. Probably because I am. But let me be clear: I’m not dissing the dark side. No way! Dark is delicious. Dark is the bitter sweet that makes life worth living. But Dark and No are not the same animal. No is all glittery surface on a skin of dull pancake make-up on a supermodel. While Dark is the deep and rich smell of freshly ground organic, fair-trade, dark-roast espresso that keeps you awake at night jittery with a mind full of a million ideas (not all good). Yes loves Dark. Yes loves it all. Yes loves life’s full spectrum of the good, the bad and the ugly.

In her book, “Steering by Starlight,” Martha Beck writes, “Neurologists like to say that ‘what fires together, wires together’.” In other words, every time you indulge your favourite obsessive thoughts, you are essentially firing obsessive-thought neurons along pathways in your brain that create literal grooves in your nervous system. Over time you will have pressed your very own EP of sadness, fear, rage, jealousy and etc. Beck says we are not born with negative thoughts and feelings, but life bombards us with experiences that create these feelings, adding this very amazing fact, “Human infants have only two natural fears: the fear of loud noises and the fear of falling. Every other fear is learned. But the harder our lives, especially in childhood, the more deeply and unconsciously negative reaction-clusters are etched into our brains and bodies.”

The great news is, all this can be rewired. Beck says you can achieve reverse wiring by holding different thoughts, but only if you do so DELIBERATELY, CONSCIOUSLY, until you've smoothed over the old grooves and created new ones -- I'm good enough, I'm smart enough and goshdarnit, people like me! Beck says the results are not just astonishing, but “empirically testable.”

“Scientist have found that Tibetan lamas who do something called ‘loving-kindness meditation’ have thicker-than-average neuron development in parts of the brain associated with happiness. Meditation has also been shown to lessen heart disease, high blood pressure, infectious illness, and many other indicators of both health and aging.”

Meditation will be one of the things I do while on ashram, both at home and once a week at a meditation centre. When I was at grad school and ready to throw myself into a patch of cow manure (goddamn, that city stank in the summer!), I joined a meditation group instead, which not only saved my life, but also gave me lasting friendships with amazing women.

So, what has got me running scared and seeking refuge in a self-styled ashram? A few things. One being so much static in my head that my heart can’t tune into a clear channel. And if I can't tune in to me, I certainly can't tune in to anyone else.

And because when I saw this sign, I wanted to cry.

Recently, I have been noticing that, in conversations with other people, instead of supporting my political, ethical and personal truths, I have been suppressing what is fundamental to me, betraying myself to the point of pain.

The price I pay for not standing by my values and not questioning ideas that have had a profound impact on people's lives -- the extreme result being violence, marginalization and poverty, and the less extreme being erosion of self-esteem (what a terrible spectrum) -- is high indeed.

Whenever I trade myself in to diminish difference with someone else (folks who I don't even think want me to! That's the crazy part!), I inevitably create a discord in my world so complex in its uncomposition that even the most experimental jazz composer would clap her hands over her ears.

Also, it's utterly disrespectful to others when I am not totally honest about how I feel. Not to mention patronizing, because it assumes the other person is not capable of absorbing and analyzing information and entering into a productive dialogue. Or even an engaging, life-changing dialogue in which both parties feel heard, respected and transformed! I want to get my engagement back.

That's just one example of how lost I feel right now, and how my lostness is shutting me down. My beautiful guru has been trying to give me this mantra for years, "truth at all costs." When I say it, I usually find my agency again. But I've fallen out of practice.

I want to find the Liz who feels like a bombshell when she sports hairy armpits (with compassion for those who find it unattractive), and who stands up LOUDLY for all social-justice issues, and who considers "view opponents" as friends-in-the-making, because, as my brilliant new boss said to me, "if you can't change the unexamined biases of the people closest to you, then how can you hope to change the world?"

How I long to change the world, but not with my usual bull-in-a-china-shop approach. Not with anger at the mainstream for perpetuating injustice and clinging blindly to their blind spots. I want to become the change I wish to see, to act with love and from love, with the patience and compassion others have shown me when I have said and done ignorant things. I want an open heart for hearing about my own unexamined mindsets.

My usual fear-based, conflict-averse MO is to give up on important conversations because I'd rather go quiet than be disliked. But no more. NO MORE. I really want to learn how to speak up, even when I'm scared of rejection, to keep trying to open up conversation, lovingly, gently and respectfully. Which means I can't be afraid of resistance. That's just part of the territory. Otherwise there'd be nothing to change.

Which, of course, might have you asking why I'm choosing to disconnect for two weeks instead of engaging more -- especially since I framed my ashram as bringing awareness to my every day life. It's a fair question. My answer is simply, I am retreating to recharge. Back to the head-noise thing. There's too much of it, and since I can't leave the city to drop out inside a temple on a mountain, or drop my work commitments, I am going to carve out silence right here at home by carving out some time alone.

Because I love you, I'm asking you all to kindly bear with my absesnce, which will be short, but necessary. And please rest assured this so not about you. It’s about me. I will not only be seeking my truth at all costs, but I'll be working on my book again, which I have let drop -- another reason for going on ashram. And, believe me, you will all benefit in the end because I will be a clearer person with less Pig-Pen dust whipping up around the both of us every time I open my mouth.

Just think of me as being in Berlin, the ashram of my soul.

Fan of Being a Fan

How many of you have had this conversation?

Someone asks you about something you did and you say something like, “check it out, it’s on my Facebook page,” and they go, “I hate Facebook! It’s such a time sucker! I think everyone who uses Facebook is idle or bored or immature!”

And you think, WTF????

I wish it had happened about two decades ago, but it happened a year ago when I turned 40 -- I no longer fear what others think. I love Facebook. I LOVE FACEBOOK. I also love all kinds of other things that don’t make it onto the cutting-edge of the cultural analysis-o-metre. Case in point: Oprah. Not a fan of the show, but most definitely a fan of the mag. Taking a page from Playboy fans, I read "O" for the articles. Yes, it’s filled with advertising for stuff I don’t need, and exhortations to women to fit into even more microscopic clothing sizes, and I’m not a fan of either of those things. But the articles are kick-ass. Especially the ones Martha Beck writes (former Mormon and Harvard Business School prof, now a lesbian life coach with a sense of humour so sharp it could slice Harvard Business School in two faster than you can say Gordon Matta Clark).



I am sure I don’t use Facebook the way the kids do. I’m not a kid. So, I’m not a fan of everything. Nor do I take the kagillions of tests to find out what rock star’s pet rock I’m most like. But if other people enjoy doing that, dammit, who am I to spoil their fun? I say, knock yourself out. Because the truth is, I laughed till I cried when my friend told me that her friend’s thirteen-year-old daughter "friended" my friend, and that this girl’s zeal for becoming a fan of things now takes up the lion’s share of real estate on my friend’s newsfeed page. The girl becomes a fan of something new everyday. Here’s a sampling:

Fan of hot showers, cookie dough, staying up late, I need a vacation, hoodies, sarcasm, hair straighteners. Hates mosquitoes, loves sleep, summer nights, Steve Carell, ipods, Dairy Queen, the beach, Cadbury mini eggs, shopping, and sleeping in class. Fan of making a "don't like" button on Facebook. Petitioning to allow short shorts/mini skits in school dress codes.

When I was thirteen, I yakked on my era-appropriate social-media tool all day long and was a fan of many people and things – Cheap Trick, salty peanuts, swimming after school, Richard Irvine (boy from Australia who arrived in grade 6), discos (there was no drinking age in Manila so we were at bars and discos at age thirteen), Singapore slings, Grease, pool parties, my best friends: Sara and Helena, the Euro boys who played soccer in the park, chicken and pork adobo, mangos, mangostines, bell bottoms, sleeping in, scary movies, imagining my first kiss . . . I just didn’t have a way to publish my passions, so they went from my mouth to Sara and Helena’s ears.

Today I got an e-mail from an FB friend who, among other things, told me that her new guy likes it when she’s on top. Now this woman is my age, more or less, newly divorced, and living the life of Rieley: dating whom she pleases and pledging herself to no one until she bloody well feels like it, if she ever feels like it. She’s an outspoken feminist who walks through the world like she not only owns it but owns everyone else’s world as well. I LOVE HER. So you can imagine how surprised I was to hear her make a distinction between the new guy and what I can only guess were the old guys who didn’t like it when she was on top. I can’t for one feminist second imagine she would have put up with that. My internal response: WTF? My written response: “any man who does not like it when you’re on top is suspect. Period.” That seemed to strike a chord in her. She immediately posted my response to her blog, which I immediately visited and discovered, to my great joy, that my friend is still the owner of the world. How do I know? Just look at her tags!

bullshit, caring, climax, disappointment, energy, friendship, hedging, love, patriarchy, personal care, player, reflection, relationships, relaxation, revelations, two girlfriends.

I especially love “hedging.” Everyone has had the experience of someone else hedging their bets about them. The tag is the opposite of inscrutable. It’s like having your own experience compressed into an atomic word that then explodes with self-exposure all over your bunker of failed romances.

Anyway, this rabbit-warren chase through all our social media spaces started with our connection on Facebook. This topper of a gal lives in my city but I have not seen her since Janauary. Thanks to Facebook, I get to experience her anyway, as well as all my other friends in this city, peeps whose delicious babies and spectacular holidays and cozy family reunions I can participate in without having to be there in the flesh, or waiting for weeks or months to get a long update letter in the mail. It's not a real-time event replacement. It's a supplement that adds richness to my day when I can't be there. What I find especially magical about Facebook is the way it levels the field with regards to geography and time zones, enabling me to stay connected with those who live around the globe, as if everyone, near and far, were all living on my doorstep.

So, when people say to me, “I hate it when someone from my past friends me. I don’t even know that person anymore,” I think “so, don’t accept the friendship. Period.” That’s the beauty of FB. You get to decide who is in or out, and even how in or out. But why throw out the friends with whom you do want to share pictures and jokes and status updates just to avoid the few with whom you don’t?


This is such old news I feel like I’m touting the virtues of television. But if people are still bitching about FB, I guess it’s not as old as all that. What I have never understood is if you think Facebook (or anything else) is a waste of time, then just don’t do it. No one is holding a gun to your head.


My mother used to say this really smart thing when I was kid, stomping my feet and having a full-blown hate on for something like peas or beans. She'd say, "stop hating so much."

I was doing absolutely nothing the other day when I was suddenly struck with the thought of how freaking weird it is that I’m am this mass of blood and guts and bones and I have this strange free-floating consciousness that chatters all day long, and that there are others like me walking around, and yet we all obsess over things like boys and clothes and status and whether or not we should be participating in social-media activities when it’s an unmitigated miracle that we exist, never mind that we think, or that we build crazy edifices we call buildings, and that we turn poisonous, bitter beans into a drink called coffee and then teach ourselves to enjoy drinking it! I mean, shit, what is more miraculous and unfathomable than us and all our manifestations? In those moments, I want to jump out of bed and eat a tray of brownies. But I’m worried about getting fat.


The point is, enjoy your life. Your way. And if you really want to ratchet up the joy factor, become a fan of something. It adds passion to your world. It gives you something to live for. Of course it’s pointless. Everything is pointless, which means everything is up for grabs, depending on which lens you wish to view life through. Mine is a chocolate lens with a popcorn chaser bathed in the LCD light of my FB profile page where I get to read about all of you!