Life is a [Sorta] FunHouse

I tried blogging while I was at Amma’s Shram today, thinking it would probably be the richest, most profound blog I ever wrote… but I just reread it, and it sucked ass.  So I’m starting over.  I’ve never done that before, but today, being boring is intolerable.  I feel much more interesting here in my bed as day gets ousted by night in passive triumph.  I guess the ashram was just way too peaceful to foster good writing.  I mean I suppose it’s pretty dang peaceful in my bedroom, but not Holy Mother of the Universe Peaceful.  The only sounds are the keys chirping like stale techno birds as my fingers bounce on them like miniature trampolines, the subtle mouth noises of my cat, Anjali, as she grooms herself at the foot of my bed and the soft, distant shhhhh of the ocean… or is it freeway traffic?  You’ll have to excuse me…for a moment I have forgotten whether it’s the beach or the freeway singing to me from outside my window…

I love watching Amma in action, hugging and hugging and hugging and hugging and hugging and… TIRELESSLY.  Man (Wonder Woman), she’s a ROCKSTAR.  She goes all day and all night and all day and all night and all day and…  Whenever I am in her presence, I try to imagine being her.  Because… you know, as a saint in training, you’ve got to keep your eyes on the prize.  But GOD, is that really the prize?  My ego isn’t very seduced by the idea of being so COMPLETELY for others, for humanity, that there is no time to just laze around and drink a good cup of black tea with milk and honey.  But then… ultimately is lazing around and drinking a cup of black tea with milk and honey really “all that”?  It’s pretty nice… but in a kinda hollow way.  I have been feeling to be in a twisted spiritual purgatory these days.  In fact, I bet this place I’m in is the true origin of the concept of purgatory.  It’s the place where I can no longer pretend to be that jazzed about worldly ambitions…at least not for any sustained amount of time… but neither am I that jazzed to be all selfless all the time.  It’s an awkwarder than thou in between state.  I feel like a mother sow who is about to give birth to seventy seven little piglets… but not for… gosh, it’s hard telling… but I might have to pace in my slimy stall for at least twelve more flashes in the blistering pan.  (Don’t you think “flashes in the pan” would be a stellar new unit of measurement?!)

Be patient, little miss thirty year old.

In the mean time, just to keep “busy”, I s’pose I’ll fritter away my time forgiving everybody and their mother.  I mean, really, what ELSE is there to do around this wonky funhouse.  Yup.  Yesterday I was existential with an unabashed pinch of bitterness and a gratuitous splash of anger, wondering WHY on earth I am being made to act out this crazy role in this bunched up, feverish dream.  I was feeling bitter and perplexed, wondering why God would make us be here and be so simultaneously enlightened and retarded.  But today, the perfect metaphor came to me.  We are in a funhouse!  Why do people go into funhouses?  Duh, for FUN.  Amusement.  But if you sleepwalked into a funhouse and then woke up in that giant spinning tunnel and had no idea why you were in a giant spinning tunnel and all you wanted to do was walk straight, it might not seem so fun after all, right?  Or say you woke up in a hall of cock-eyed mirrors and you forgot what you really looked like, but you were trying to remember your true self, and all you were seeing were contorted, freaky reflections, it might not seem that fun either…

Well I am lost in the fun house.  And lord is it FUN in here!  (That was supposed to be taken with a note of whispy sarcasm.  Permeable sarcasm, as opposed to that impermeable, New York sarcasm that not even BULLETS can penetrate.)  The good news about being held hostage in this tepidly fun house, is that I am remembering that all the reflections truly are me.  (Yes, that includes YOU!)  This idea used to drive me nuts.  I’ve been grappling with it for quite some time… In my early twenties I nearly drowned in it… because I found my sensitive assed self constantly taking responsibility for other peoples’ shit, having no boundaries and feeling more than overwhelmed as a result.  But since I’ve been studying A Course In Miracles, I have rediscovered the missing piece of the equation, the potent antidote to the suffocating confusion.

Forgiveness.  Without forgiveness, I used to consider that everyone was me and all I was, was a massively imperfect, tangled jerk.  God, am I exaggerating or WHAT?!  That’s not all I saw…(I saw a gluttonous multiplicity of facets of the gem named “Me”) I’m just trying to express that looking thru the lens that it is all my reflection, often came with the sensation of feeling like I was in way over my head, and with that, a sense of powerlessness.  Forgiveness is the secret alchemical ingredient.  Now when I find myself judging, condemning, repulsed, etc, I am practicing recognizing the object of my condemnation as a facet of myself.  Usually, it’s not too hard, since I am pretty blasted aware of my imperfect state.  But every time I forgive, it’s that much more light that can pour thorough and cause delightful blindness!

For example a driver cuts me off on the road.  I hear myself say speak some trashy, wrathful words and I screech on the psycho-emotional brakes… “Athena?  Have you ever cut someone off before?”  “Yes’m…” I sigh.  Or when someone says something that has me feel criticized… Sure, I can be a poisonously critical bitch.  But that’s not the interesting part.  The interesting part is, CAN I FORGIVE THAT CRITICAL BITCH IN ME?

Mirror, mirror on the wall…

please help me liberate

from this small

dream

of myself.  Mirror,

mirror on the wall,

I forgive you for all

these

unflattering reflections

as I trudge and whistle

across this long assed haul.

Yeah, I’ve got a ways to go before I am “home free” in sainthood.  Home free…Ha!  That was me poking fun at myself, because I don’t think sainthood is any old wedding cakewalk in the park on a lazy Sunday in Paris.  But who knows… I reserve the right to be wrong about that…

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. souldipper
    Jun 10, 2010 @ 05:07:06

    I keep forgetting to laugh! Well, I’m improving… – Amy

    Reply

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