You Know You Want To

Last summer, my friend Nicolas and I could not tear ourselves away from a terrible TV show called, Tell Me You Love Me. The show followed four couples through their various relationship troubles, and even invited us into the intimate space of their therapy sessions.

Oh, and into their bedrooms, too, where they had truly awfully portrayed sex – weirdly too explicit and so totally lacking in eroticism and joy that I almost thought I was watching porn. Jane Campion – of "The Piano" fame – was one of the producers of the show. I can't explain that. It was so badly written, so badly directed, so badly acted and, as I said, had the worst sex scenes I’ve ever witnessed (through my fingers, horror-movie style) that I can only think Jane was offered a stupid soul-selling sum of money to write and produce it. Please, god, put a cap in my ass if I ever produce something so lack lustre.

But amidst the horror and boredom (who knew you could have both simultaneously, but this show proved you can), there was one scene between a prudish mother and sexually budding daughter that touched me so deeply I cried. The daughter – twelve – is troubled by her masturbatory activity. Since no one ever talks about anything in her shut-down family, much less something as shame-inducing as masturbation, she thinks something must be wrong with her. Thankfully, the mother notices the daughter’s suffering and coaxes her to open up. When the daughter finally spills, the mother gives the most tender speech about masturbation I’ve ever heard. She says that the daughter’s body is hers to cherish and love and own. And that the pleasure it brings is hers, and worthy, just as she is worthy. What a gift.

For a few weeks now, I’ve been thinking about a discussion I had with some of my journalist friends over brunch. My blog came up, specifically an old post in which I made mention of my vibrator. The journalists expressed concern about me having written about something so personal on such a public site (Coz my readers are legion, dontcha know!)

I assured them I was OK with that kind of self exposure (which feels pretty safe when everyone and their dog masturbates). But that was not the issue for them. They were more worried about my post costing me a job in the future. “What if a prospective employer reads the post?” I tried to imagine an employer deciding not to hire me because I masturbate and, worse, because I use a vibrator! Then I imagined all the hands prospective employers have already shaken, and will shake in the future, that have also masturbated, including the employer’s own. By comparison, the hand that holds my vibrator seems pretty “clean”! But the journalists pressed on. What if my children read the post?! That I don't have children I guess was academic to them. I had no response. Why not ask, what if my children find out I drink coffee?! Or, that I wear pajamas when I make professional phone calls from my home office?!

As far as I'm concerned, masturbation, like coffee and pajamas, is firmly in the category of basic human right. I assume my imaginary children will masturbate in the way I assume they will breathe (and maybe even work in their pajamas one day). I hope that if I ever do have children, they will never feel any shame around something so natural, and that maybe they will even feel proud that their mother did not bend to senseless shaming. One thing my mother taught me well was to value my physical pleasure, to treat it as precious, whether sharing it with someone else, or just myself. She always used the word “beautiful" to describe sexual joy. I love her for that.

What really struck me most about this conversation, however, was the source. I mean, these are journalists, for god's sake! People who write about things that put them in far, far more vulnerable positions than I put myself with this blog. They are the ones who tackle hot political topics, often having to write about, or report on, situations/ideas/events they themselves may fundamentally disagree with, or, even tougher, have to put their own political views on the line and then defend them IN THE NEWS. For instance, one of the journalists got fired from her job because her stories were seen as too Zionist and not objective enough. I admire her fearlessness in standing by her political views and deeply held values, and the courage it took to not pretend she felt otherwise. To me, that’s scarier than writing about masturbation. Despite the shame that has traditionally shrouded masturbation in many cultures (sadly, clearly alive and well amongst even my most sophisticated and intrepid peers), I suspect that most people do it and enjoy it. Writing about such a happy topic, for me, requires no courage whatsoever.

I sat on this post for a while to see if my initial response to the conversation – a mixture of gratitude for their concern and surprise that masturbation is still such a touchy topic – would abate. The intensity of my feelings did fade, but the desire to become a masturbation advocate (journalist?) lingered and strengthened. The beauty and power of journalism lies in its intention to provide a democracy of voices. In that spirit, I don’t expect everyone to like what I have to say, to agree with it, or even to care. I certainly don’t expect them read about masturbation and vibrators if they find the topic distasteful.

Oh, wait, too late!

Shy Bird Dog

[Click pic: Thanks jgrnly]

I am the person who tries the thing that someone else has tried and which, for them, has inevitably resulted in resounding success, but when I do it, the outcome is always at the most opposite pole to success.

To wit: in 2005, I opened myself up to online dating as I was finishing my grad program in London, Ontario. When I got two out of two no gos, I blamed the city for slim pickings, but I did not give up. I gamely tried again when I moved to Montreal, and even one more time when I moved to Toronto last year because friends, strangers and all print and online media reported inspiring stories of online matches with social-media-When-Harry-Met-Sally endings.

[Click pic: Thanks jgrnly]

Everyone admitted it was a numbers game (you have to kiss a lot of frogs, etc.), but at least the parade of potentials would provide a little diversion on the journey towards a lifetime of partnered-up bliss. I could not argue with that logic. So I played the game and went online. And it’s true, I met some lovely guys. But I also met some coo coos. And, ultimately, the online dating route did not produce a Harry equivalent, not even a facsimile of his brother.

Whereas my friend who joined the aptly-named dating site, Plenty of Fish, not only found her mate within a month (and a choice fish at that: one of the most amazing men I have met since meeting men), but she is now, a year later, pregnant and thrilled with her new burgeoning family. I was on Plenty of Fish, too, except I lasted a scant 36 hours because I was so inundated with lewd chat requests (to which I so wish I had responded, “oh yes, I’m simply dying to engage in all manner of play with the part of your body that poops just as soon as we meet, you hot stranger, you!”) that I had to shut down my profile pronto, (and mentally rename the site Plenty of Bottom Feeders so that I could place the blame on them and unsully myself).

I use this friend as an example because she is not a run-of-the-mill gal. She’s not even in the same town as a mill. She’s one of the sharpest, most creative, most kick-ass women I know. She does not brook ignorance, immaturity, cruelty or laziness of thought and action. She has so much integrity she makes integrity itself look disingenuous by comparison. And that kind of human is rare, which makes the potential for finding a match even rarer. But no. She found EXACTLY the right guy for her. And on Plenty of Bottom Feeders!!!!!

As for me, I’ve tried everything from smiling more (to suggest I’m a positive thinker) to crying more (affecting an air of mysterious Germanic melancholy); from putting myself out there more (art openings, gatherings at friends of friends, etc.), to trusting the universe more (which means staying home and watching movies, my favourite thing!); from flirting with everyone in my neighbourhood more – the video-store dudes who are twenty going on fifteen, the rep cinema ticket-booth boy, who really is fifteen, people in movie line ups, book stores, blogs and strangers on other people’s Facebook pages – to doing the opposite of flirting, like initiating conversations about hideous global child-labour practices, homelessness, poverty and violence in a world where rich countries and privileged people turn their backs on the disadvantaged and the disenfranchised, it all makes one wonder what the bloody point of anything is anyway (don’t you agree, cute boy I’m talking to?)

I realize this all makes me sound desperate, which I was a few years ago, but recently I’ve begun to wonder if my dating behaviour is now simply habit. Because something has changed. I’ve lost my joie de dating. Most times I prefer a quiet at night home nuzzling a novel, which makes me ask myself, do I really need a mate? I am not so sure I do anymore. I can cook, clean, read, go out with friends, and even self-pleasure: what is more orgasmic than a perfect bowl of popcorn popped to perfection because I know how to pop it to perfection?!

In an earlier post, I said I never thought I’d come back to Toronto, but here I am and I’m thrilled to be back. I have reconnected with nourishing, funny, bright girlfriends, some of whom are even partnered up with equally nourishing, funny, bright mates. I enjoy spending time with all of them. But then I get to go home to my Liz-perfect apartment, my absorbing new job(s), my fridge full of weird food and enjoy all my weird habits in the privacy of my own space.

And just as everyone always predicts, when you stop looking for THE ONE, that’s exactly when something unexpected happens. And that’s exactly what happened.

Sometimes when we are so focused on a particular methodology for achieving our heart’s most cherished desire, we fail to recognize that the object of desire was not exactly what we thought. Although I had stopped the online search myself, I had put someone else on the job for me. So, yes, in the same way muzak is kind-of music, I was kind of still looking for something, but in the background, on someone else’s time.

There’s no question that I have a type: intellectual, funny, soft in the belly, and funny. Did I mention funny? Well, as if getting all that were not enough, when my hired sleuth hit the jackpot on my behalf, I got so much more than I could have imagined. Like liver spots. And skin like an aging ball sack. And an Andy Warhol mop top over puppy-dog eyes, all topping a delicate, diminutive frame. OK, I didn’t get the zaftig physique I generally go for, but in exchange I got a male who is house broken!

After a week of ogling his online photo and coming to terms with the fact that he was temporarily located in the burbs (and me with no car or license), I finally bit the bullet and coerced a girlfriend to drive me out to meet him (read: chaperone me). At annother woman’s house, no less!

I'm just going to say it. It was love at first sight. Trite, yes, but oh so true. And it was love in the truest sense of the word: I loved him unconditionally. And, MIRACLE, he seemed to like me, too! In fact, he got right into my lap and went to sleep. Not even a hint of tongue first, which I find respectful, charming and appropriate on a first date.

What was even more miraculous than my new male sleeping in my lap within the first five minutes of our meeting was that I had this out-of-brain experience in which all the luggage I have been jealously guarding my whole life, feet and hands splayed over them territorially as I hawkeyed anyone who dared to even look in my direction, suddenly vanished, as if some cosmic flight attendant relieved me of all the accoutrements I have never needed, freeing me to fly unencumbered to my next vacation destination.

In plain language, what I'm saying is that in that moment of pure connection, all my old bad habits of thought and action evaporated. Poof. For instance, gone one was my desire to criticize my new male’s politics, or table manners, or the way he connects to my friends (I know they will love him and he will return their love unstintingly). Gone was my desire for him to have read all the books I’ve read, and to have all the same opinions about them that I do. Gone was my desire for him to challenge me 24/7 just in case I suddenly found myself at a dinner party with the Nobel Prize winner for Literature and Neuroscience (a category they should have). Gone was my usual checklist of things he had to perform in order to win my love. My love was already his, instantly. Even as my love left me like blood through an open wound, I was refilled immediately, the supply now endless.

Without further ado, let me introduce you to this extraordinary creature. Shy Bird Phillips. My boy.

So, when someone asks me if online dating works, I can now honestly say it does. And all those years in therapy to stop myself from trying to turn some poor guy into my saviour, or to stop my own megalomaniac belief that it’s my job to save someone else (and can), are finally bearing fruit. You see, Bird is a rescue dog, so I assumed I was the one rescuing him, but I made a category mistake: he is a rescue dog indeed, but that's because he rescues damsels in distress.

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.