arcana

heavy blossoms fell last night with the rain. i tossed them into the compost pile this morning with hot, creamy cup of earl grey in hand, as i bid them make my soil rich.  there's another storm coming, and the air is pregnant with rain.

in tarot readings, there are a handful of cards that make you sit up straighter.  i drew Death, The Hanged Man, The High Priestess and Temperance.  these major arcana represent the forces of life over which i have no control. indeed, these specific cards represent, respectively:

transition. letting go of the past. returning to simplicity.  riding my Fate. moving from known to unknown.


sacrifice. emotional release.  relinquishing control.  taking time to be.  surrendering to experience.


waiting.  allowing.  withdrawing from involvement.  seeking inner guidance.  mystery.  intuition.


centering.  finding middle ground, equilibrium.  recovering.  healing.  flourishing.  synthesis.


i have put myself "out there."  now it's time to turn inward and wait.

i am horrible at waiting.  for all the patience i have as a yoga teacher and artist--waiting while my students drop into the space of relaxation, creating tiny beauty with my hands--when it comes to allowing my life to unfold as it is ready, i have all the patience of a sheepdog herding her flock.  which is silly, because i cannot rush myself into realizing my highest potential anymore than i can force flowers to rot.

ironically, the Priestess is my favorite card.  she is all that is unknown.  she is the lucid dreamer, the stargazer. she celebrates the moon in all its phases, preferring the dark and the shadow because they are the house of the soul.  she needs not wage war because destruction, death and rebirth are already occurring.  she recognizes that life is lived both forwards and backwards--that we are what we will ever become.

lying in savansana once i had a vision: the soul, in some cosmic waiting room looking out upon the entire Universe, gets to choose what human life it wants to live.  depending on its karmic level, it sees a summary of each possibility--with its black lows and jubilant highs--and makes its decision.  it forgets what it is, reminded by art, poetry, music, dancing, the heartbreaking resplendence of the sea--by the stars, by moments of hopeless despair, every time it falls in love.  all is decided because Fate is a thread: but the thread must be woven, seen through to the last warp. (this is a weaving term, yes?  come on, all you weavers!  challenge me if it is not!)

i am beginning to read James Hillman's The Soul's Code, because--as always--i am seeking.  he posits that there is a daimon in us all, a guardian that guides us to our highest selves at all costs.  the more we ignore, medicate, numb, oppose, repress the daimon, the more awake it becomes.  it is charged with our care because it loves us with a fierce love like blue fire.  it loves us more that we love ourselves.  when we are aligned with it, we feel whole and nourished.  but it takes courage to stay aligned.

so i will wait.  i will relinquish control and surrender to experience. i will be: with my close-set eyes and my petty insecurities...with my passionate voice and my depression...with my road rage and my tenderness.

i will be.

love, 2003, acrylic on canvas

date rape, robert garza

going back through my journals, i realize how lost and scared and confused i was.  the perfect prey.

robert...what the fuck was your last name? garcia?  you worked at the Thousand Oaks Healing Arts Institute in Reseda in 2005, i know that for sure.  Garza.  Robert Garza.  you work at the Hands On Healing Institute in Tujunga, as well.

looking back, i can't believe i didn't recognize how creepy you were.  what was i thinking?  probably rationalizing, while my intuition, straitjacketed in starvation and malnutrition and depression, was feebly begging me to run the other way.  you were 41; i was 24.

i went with you on a road trip to San Francisco and Lake Tahoe during Christmas of 2005--my first Christmas away from my family.  i had already told you i did not want any romantic relationship.  i was willing to travel with you as a friend.  i could get out of Camarillo, see the snow, learn how it is in other families during the holidays.

i don't know if you planned it.  maybe it was just a spontaneous thought--you brought some for yourself and figured you'd see what my reaction might be.  either way, you gave me one magic pill before we left for the jazz clubs: Magic X.  i believe i was drinking martinis.  you gave me another one before we even got to the next club.  you would end up giving me 3 tablets of ecstasy within 3 hours.  thanks for the introduction to your favorite drug of choice.  and you're a professional in the health field?  scary.

i remember being back at the hotel room.  i remember getting undressed: i don't know if it was you or i who did it.  but we ended up in bed together.  eventually--probably sometime during the wee hours of the next morning--i made my way, vomiting, to the toilet.  you watched as i teetered in front of the bathroom mirror, as my legs buckled underneath me.  you told me later that you caught me just before my head hit the corner of the bathroom counter.  my hero.

i remember making it back to the hotel bed.  i remember drifting in and out of consciousness; at one point i heard the housekeeper banging on the door to be let it.  check out was at noon, but i couldn't regain full consciousness until at least 4pm.  you've must have been scared shitless, wondering if someone was going to find out that you had a semi-conscious young woman half-naked in your bed with a duffel bag full of pot and e and who knows what else.  i know we eventually made it out of there.  when i regained my strength, i vowed never to let you touch me again.

i tried to stay away from you while we were in Tahoe, sharing a room at your friend's house.  i engaged in playing with her three children, even had fun sledding down the hills near the neighborhood.  you attempted to apologize, giving me little trinkets and gifts.  i wanted nothing to do with you; i was only biding my time until i could go home.  you confronted me, saying i was being ungrateful and rude.  i was incredulous that you could accuse me as such, and asked what exactly it was you wanted from me.  "Affection," you said.  i told you that warmth was the last thing i felt for you and tried to leave the room, but you followed me upstairs and closed the door behind you.  this was when the little hairs all stood up on the back of my neck.  i was cornered like an animal, and like an animal whose life is threatened, i became all adrenaline and rage.  you got in my face and hissed again about me being ungrateful (for you overdosing me?!?) and i have never EVER been so close to punching a grown man in the face before.  i growled something like "get out of my way" and something in my eyes must have shown you that i meant it.  you stepped aside and i ran out the door, down the stairs, out of the house and into the snow.

our last confrontation came after we returned to Southern California.  we were both scheduled for work that day at the chiropractic office.  i avoided you: no eye contact, no words spoken.  after my last massage, you came into my room while i was stripping the bed of sheets and packing up to go home.  "I just want to talk," you said.  then you closed the door.  again, cornered.  again, adrenaline.  i tried to pack up as fast as i could so i could flee before you tried anything.  i was terrified.  i should have just left right then, or screamed bloody murder.  but i didn't.  "Don't touch me," i hissed.  "Get the fuck away from me."  i made it out with my things as you insisted that i was over-reacting and that you just wanted to talk.  i got in my car and sped off until i was out of sight...then i pulled into a parking lot, killed the engine and burst into tears, shaking uncontrollably.

i discussed what had happened later with a friend who happened to be a law school dropout.  "Write a letter," she advised me.  i did.  i made 3 copies: one for me, one for you and one for our supervisor.  it said that i had dated you and broken off the relationship, and that i wanted nothing more to do with you.  if you looked at me, touched me, spoke to me or in any way made me feel uncomfortable in my place of work, i would demand you be fired...and if you were not, i would sue the office.

i never heard from you again.

i feel sorry for you.  you are one sick bastard.  i hope you are no longer a massage therapist.  i hope you haven't had the chance to victimize any other girls or women; but if you have, i hope they've had the courage to press charges and incarcerate you.  i've held this secret for a very long time, letting it poison me.  it feels good to finally tell the truth.

pwacticing da counting

i often feel like i need to be doing more with my life.

i don't know if this is healthy ambition, unhealthy ambition, me being called to fulfill my true potential, or me doing too much thinking and not enough doing.  i suppose i'm having a third-life crisis.  no, not a mid-life crisis (because knowing my luck, i'll live until i'm 100); not a quarter-life crisis (because i don't forsee surviving to blow out 120 candles).  approximately one-third of my life is over, and it's freaking me the fuck out.

i mean, i just ate a chocolate chip cookie and hardly really tasted it.  i'm going to need to get my act together if i plan on making the other two-thirds of my years count.

i know part of it is the pressure of our culture: pressure to have a retirement fund set up by age 25 and a college fund for your kid 10 years before you have her.  i don't even want kids, but i feel guilty for having all of $400 in the bank and a crappy credit score.  i guess i can thank my family for my financial retardation...and since i'm not having any kids, my bad money karma can die with me and that will be the end of it.

i really should just be amazed that i made it this far.  everyone here knows that i attempted suicide, landed in the hospital for anorexia, blahblah blah blah blahblah...but instead of feeling like a superhero for being able to eat peanut butter and avocados without having a mental breakdown, i feel like a 17-year-old trapped in a 30-year-old's body, a girl who just figured out what everyone else was practically born knowing.  i can't even figure out relationships for buddha's sake (although i know some 50-year-olds who still can't quite get it).  there are people 5 years my junior who are running startups they'll be ready to sell by 2017...i have been putting off fixing my brakes for so long that i'd rather run the risk of a ticket for rolling through a stop sign than endure the embarrassing looks from pedestrians as my shrieking bansheemobile pulls up to the crosswalk, shattering a few storefront windows in the process.  i don't know why i feel that car maintenance is a microcosmic metaphor for life, but i just do.  so there.

thank god for graduate school and doctoral programs, because at least i can go to school for the rest of my life, rack up debt and avoid having to figure out what to do with myself.

yeah, i sound a little bitter and depressed.  sorry.  transitions were never easy for me, and the move is having a delayed effect on my stress levels.  i broke up with my ex because i wanted more space.  now i'm in the center of a gaping abyss with a dinosaur of a laptop checking into my Facebook profile page every 10 minutes.  it's just sad.  i should at least go to cafes and check Facebook...because when you're on a laptop at a cafe, you always look very busy and important, even if you're watching the latest episode of Baman Piderman.

what?  you haven't seen ANY episodes of Baman Piderman?  christ, man, click here.

anyway, i wish i had some uplifting conclusion to this post...but i don't.  i'm going to pick the cookie crumbs out of my teeth and try to recapture the taste so i can make the 100 calories i just ingested count for something.