Profession #54: This Is NOT How I Was Raised

“Are you there?” read the subject line of a recent email from a friend.

“Yikes,” I thought, and took the question much more to heart than she likely intended.  “Am I here?” I asked myself…meaning, am I really showing up, front and center; awake, aware, connected to and grateful for, not only my life, but for the lives of those who love me?  “Yes and no,” was the answer. Embodying being here is my primary focus right now AND I get way distracted… a lot ... and thus lose touch with loved ones.

My friend’s inquiry reinforced a thought that has occurred to me again and again:  to keep up my travelogues (i.e. write) could free several caged birds through one door.  Free bird #1, I was born with an affinity for language and to allow that gift expression would, I assume, please the Source that gave it to me.  Free bird # 2, playing with words and facilitating connections gives me joy. Birdie #3, and super-dooper important, it takes a village to keep this stone gathering no moss. If I were sponsoring a youngster in Africa, I would appreciate some periodic updates on how my investment is benefiting the kid. Obviously, my needs are nowhere near that of a helpless babe in an impoverished country; I employ the comparison trusting you get my point.

In case you don’t, I’ll be specific…there are the friends that let me use their mailing address and keep my few remaining possessions at their house so I don’t have to pay for storage… and the friends who tote me to and from the airport every time I come through base camp (Dallas), and the friends that let me borrow a car so I don’t have to rent one… and the loved ones that let me stay with them between work gigs. And then there are those of you who may not offer regular, tangible assistance, but just as importantly, care. You ask; you listen/read and, if your mind does conjure up fear-based what-if’s that could happen to a single woman exposing herself to all sorts of unfamiliar people, precarious circumstances and treacherous bacteria in foreign lands, you keep them to yourself. That’s helpful.

Bottomline is, I am grateful for all the support I receive and sharing updates is one way I could express it, if I weren’t so cowardly and uncommitted when it comes to writing. I’m working on it…..

Anyway! Back on the surface… the direct answer to my friend’s question is, “Yes, I am ‘here’ and ‘here’ refers to Lake Atitlan in Guatemala.”   Isn’t that the same place I was last time I posted a travelogue just over a year ago? Yep, it sure is. Have I been here the whole time? Nope, I haven’t…I left and ran a jagged configuration of migratory routes between Cuba,  East Coast-West Coast- Central U.S.,  and Central America, with a new destination, Tanzania, thrown in for freshness.  Of course, there are a zillion tales to be told from those adventures, but that’s not what’s on my mind and heart.

Here-now I'm back at the Lake in Guatemala for a very specific reason: to learn what, if I had my life to do over again, my community would have begun teaching me the day I busted out of Mom’s womb.  I’m talking about the basics of what it means for a soul to suit up in flesh and take up residence on a planet whirling through a galaxy with no end in sight.  I want to know what this whole business of inhabiting a body, experiencing emotions, mitigating a mind and stewarding a spirit is about. At age 47 a colossal Duh has flattened me to the floor:  why would I expect to feel fabulous and fulfilled when those 4 aspects of being a human are not kept in perfect balance and in a state of constant collaboration?  Is it any surprise, really, that physically I don’t enjoy radiant health when I don’t treat my body like Cuban men treat their 57 Chevy’s? (i.e. still purring and glistening in the new millennium as if they just rolled out of the factory yesterday) 

I know it's not a Chevy...work with me.

 How could I not suffer from anxiety and depression when I “should” all over my own emotions, denying them or stuffing them rather than trusting them? Why wouldn’t my brain be foggy and my memory flailing when I judge and doubt my own brilliant thoughts and intuitive hits because I fear they won’t be embraced? How can I expect my spirit to soar to its highest potential when I don’t allow time, space and nourishment daily for activities that would do for it what a thundershower does for an August afternoon? And, finally, the big momma question of them all:  Why wasn’t the hunka, hunka burnin’ truth behind my colossal Duh ever conveyed to me by the institutions in charge of my formation? the schools, the churches, the sports teams, the clubs, my family, the sororities, the professional organizations, the government? Ignorance is the short answer. Lack of consciousness and/or a desire for external power is the more complicated one.  So, here I am, age 47, starting over at a retreat center in the mountains of Guatemala, learning how to take care of my four aspects of being human and training in how to share that knowledge with others.

The hiccup...the glitch… is that this TRUTH to which I am arriving is NOT how I was raised and it throws a monkey wrench in the works.

Sitting cross-leg on a cushion and chanting OM is NOT how I was raised. I was raised to nail my butt to the church pew and hold as still as that limp Jesus in front of me...lest I want a similar fate to befall me. 

Honoring my body, calming my mind and centering my being the first hour of every morning with yoga and meditation is NOT how I was raised.  I was raised to slug a mug of coffee and rush off to heart-deadening obligations.

Sharing bathrooms, kitchens, and everything but my underwear with a bunch of strangers from all corners of the world is NOT how I was raised. I was raised to work hard to make enough money so I can buy MY OWN, hoard MY OWN and maybe share...or better yet, loan MY STUFF to approved brethren, if they promise to give it back or return the favor.

This clash of raising and reality came to a head the other Sunday at Ecstatic Dance. I was in the altered state allowing my body uninhibited movement can produce when my being asked me to pause and write. The following is from my journal:

If my momma could see me now, she would shit…shit her britches brown. Sorry, Mom, I know you wouldn’t approve of that language anymore than you would approve of this bunch of hoodlums I’m shaking my booty off with. I know it’s not how you raised me, AND at 47, I’m realizing that, in the end, how strictly I and others adhere to social norms is not what is going to save me. How this tattooed, pierced and ill-dressed bunch of barefooted hippies with hair past their asses appear on the outside is not my concern.  What matters to me is if they found my lost wallet between bus seats, would something on their insides move them to go out of their way to get it back to me? If enlarging a loop the size of a tuna can in their ear lobes makes them somehow kinder to my cat, have at…plug a Michelin tire in that hole for all I care. If covering every ounce of their hides with mermaids, snakes, anchors and baby’s daddy’s names keeps them scooping their dogs’ poop out of my yard, they can tattoo the undersides of their eyelids for all I care. What’s it to me, if piercing their private parts moves them to wave kindly rather than shoot me the finger (or something more deadly) when I accidentally cut them off in traffic? By all means poke a hole in every piece of dangling flesh God gave you, if it helps you be understanding.

And as for these jeans I dance in, Mom, I know what you are thinking. No, I was not attacked by a pack of starving hyenas.  All of these holes were already in these pants when I found them under a bush on the side of the street in an Oakland neighborhood.  That’s right, Mom, I am wearing homeless jeans that may have been worn by a homeless person, and no, I did not boil them before putting them on, and yes, I know they are a size 8 and I wear a size 2, and yes, I know the waistline bunches up like old lady elastic under my belt and I know rolling the bottoms up four turns makes me look like I’m wearing toddler arm floaties around my ankles…AND, Mom, …I don’t care. I like these jeans and I will wear them. They have a story. I have a story. I feel free when I wear them, free enough to dance as if I were raised to love everyone as your Jesus asked us to, unconditionally.

The jeans not dancing

So, dear friend who ask a three word question that provoked a 1,499 word answer, you now know where I am. For the friend who asked on Facebook, “What are you doing?”  I’ll be brief: I just spent a month training to be a yoga and meditation teacher for Las Piramides del Ka.  I am now a student in their three month Sun Course at their secluded retreat center in the mountains. I am sharing the space and the process with a Brit, an Aussie, a Belgian, a Mexican, two Israelis and two U.S. Americans ranging in age from 28-42. Our Mon-Sat schedule is 7a.m. yoga, 10 a.m metaphysics and 5 p.m. meditation. Between those we practice…practice living in community (which requires peaceful resolution of who moved my cheese?), listening to the teacher within, nourishing our bodies, accepting emotions that come up, taking responsibility for our own happiness and tutoring local kids in their English studies. Sundays we rest, as the Good Lord suggests. We will take a vow of silence for the last 40 days of our retreat that ends on the summer equinox to go deep within to the only place where true fulfillment resides. After that, the plan is, that I will assume the role of the Guardian of Silence here, and facilitate for the next group the experience I will have just completed. I will teach yoga and meditation, assist the foundress and senior teachers of the center and take care of the students.   

  This is the first time in seven years that I will be in the one place for more than a few months. My nomadic spirit welcomes the reststop.

I feel so much better now that I have acted on the call to write this. Thanks for reading…really, it means much. I will be periodically checking email until the vow of silence. Always love hearing from you.

For pics of the place click www.laspiramidesdelka.com 

Much love and many blessings from the highlands of Lago Atitlan,

Gigi