Endings


I often wish I weren’t so aware of the temporal nature of things.  Since I am also aware that my announcing to random people that we’re all going to die soon (some of us sooner than others) doesn’t exactly nominate me for life of the party, it seems I have to…what?

We are all going to die soon, some of us sooner than others.

Maybe it’s just that every ending is a kind of death, and in me lives a desire to hold on, to make everything last, to say, as Galway Kinnell says in The Book of Nightmares, “…to let nothing of you go, ever.”

This week my Tuesday night Beginning Meisner class ended (a particularly great class), then my Co-Directing at Stoneham Theatre ended on Thursday (though I just returned from seeing a performance I didn’t direct), and tonight yoga teacher training ended.

I want to hold onto gold, and nothing gold can stay.

Galway Kinnell holds the preciousness of his children up against mortality, and sighs his love with images from the bible, from nightmares…and the ultimate nightmare is death, looming up out of the future, or often, in my case, out of the past.

I fought with myself on the mat in yoga teacher training, and I loved the philosophy sessions, and I learned, and I got better, and without my noticing it, this peace I have been cultivating deepened.  Yes, I still love to sound off, tongue in cheek, but I am serious about peace, and about learning what it might mean to die consciously, to let go, to get a grip in the face of what we all fear, to find courage.

Every ending is a reminder of all the endings that I am still trying to finish, to be done with, to grieve.  So that I may shed the chaff, and lean into peace, even when it looks like pain, or grief, or loss itself.  That I may lean in, and not away, my heart open, willing to be hurt, willing to feel it, the bittersweet, the loving so much, the knowing of the temporal, which is life.

I wish the cast of Prom metta, wherever they go, every day, every hour, whenever they can find it, and wherever they can’t.

I wish the new yoga teachers the yoga they know now, and the yoga they don’t, the finding of purusa, of samadhi.

And I hope my Meisner students return, soon, because I am not done with them, and I hope they are not done with me.

And Don.  The powerlessness.  And the knowing…that he’s here. I can feel the kindness of him as I write this.  I know it isn’t too deep for him, even though he’d probably say, “Wow.”  Then he’d pause, and tell me about his brother, some of the same story he’d told me before, but with something new, and deeper.  May I never forget, may I feel him, in me, in memory, in everything he’s left behind.

Opening my heart to 3 endings in one week, and this death, this year.

Metta for me.  May I be at peace with what is.  May I stay alive, cultivating peace and opening, opening, opening.  To the truth of the world, not as I want it to be, ending after ending, but to what it is, itself, sometimes slightly knowable, after all.

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FUH, Part 2


I would like to have another topic besides couples therapy.  Especially because right now, at this very minute, I should be studying for my yoga teacher training test, which is tonight.  If I fail, it’s the blog’s fault.

Wow, a cool new thing to blame!

But, back to wanting a new topic, I don’t really have one.  There is just the new couples’ therapist, not long for this world, because I think she’s psychotic.

Why do I think this?

Because I told her that interrupting me when I’m telling my partner I’m hurt didn’t win her any points, and I don’t really like therapists, etc, etc.  Then she says, staring directly into my eyes:

“How will this affect us?”

I put a jacket over my entire head and squealed a little.  I could feel my partner laughing next to me.  Finally, I took the jacket off of my face and looked at FUH.  She was still staring into my eyes, but now at least she didn’t quite know what to do.

I’m like, “That is just way too intimate for me.  I don’t even know you.”

I did not say, but will say here, “US?  What the f*&( do you mean, US?  There is no us.  If you want to ask how it affects the therapy, fine, but at least acknowledge that it is a business relationship, not some kind of deep bond or collaboration because the truth is I don’t even like you and I really think you desperately need a fashion consultant!!!!”

My partner and I agree that when FUH looks at you like that, she’s trying to suck your soul out of your eyes right into her super intense need for a life that she clearly does not have.

In other words, couples therapy continues to provide us with a common enemy, thereby fulfilling its purpose of keeping us bonded and getting along.

But I really don’t think I can look at FUH’s wardrobe for much longer.  It kind of hurts my eyes.

The Lyralen Kaye Rules of Order


In other words, the world is f#$%ing with me again.

Seriously.

It has become apparent to me, in no uncertain terms, that the world and other people have not learned the Lyralen Kaye Rules of Order.  The extent to which they have not learned them is truly mind-boggling, since on some level I obviously think I’m God.  Or should be.  Or was once.

It’s unclear.

What is clear, as I’m driving down Route 28 to Stoneham yesterday behind a woman going 5 miles under the speed limit, is that things are not going according to plan.  And then I arrive at the theatre and everyone has a different opinion of the piece we’ve created.  And then, through no fault of her own, someone I’m supposed to meet is late.  It kind of goes this way, one thing after another, from birth onward, as the fact that I am not in charge becomes something that no amount of denial or obsessive control will change.

I wonder why no one else seems to have the same rule book?  And don’t they all know I’m right?

And then, because I am now officially a pseudo-Buddhist, I notice that I think these things and experience a moment of complete awe at my own insanity.

Then, because someone is late, I take a nap.  I love naps.  Yesterday, a day of relentless busyness, had no room for naps until someone was late.

I did, however, rudely pass the woman driving so slowly and weaving left and right so no one could pass.  I mean, I’m not a candidate for pseudo-Buddhist saintliness.

Then I go to yoga teacher training and it’s all on ahimsa (non-violence) and satya (honesty), asteya (non-stealing) and brahmacharya (celibacy).  That’s a great way to realize that you yourself are not exactly following the Eastern spirituality rule book and to fall, splat, into a nice pond of humility as you realize you’re unkind to yourself if not others, that you project an image when you want to be real and that you steal, covet, use your attractiveness and charm in a multitude of ways in order to get what you want and basically are a lower life form.

Then I came home and looked at the pink Cadillac convertible my partner bought me at Graceland last weekend.  This made me feel unexpectedly better.  Unexpected because I’ve been playing my favorite game with her (that is in no rulebook whatsoever).  The game is called, “If you really loved me, you’d….”  For about 10 years, the end of that sentence was, “Buy me a pink Cadillac convertible.”  (I always go for the gold.)  She won this round of the game by being very sneaky and getting me an Elvis-like toy instead of the real thing, so I’m working on a new version of the game, which, no doubt, any couples therapist would point out as extremely dysfunctional.  If they knew about it, that is.  But they’re not going to find out from me, satya or no satya, and my partner is so happy with herself for figuring out the Cadillac thing, I bet she’ll keep quiet, too.  Besides, I like this Cadillac.  If she got me the real thing I’d have to drive it around and look like an idiot (so I guess I set up this game pretty poorly, underestimating her craftiness in all ways).

Anyhow, in the Lyralen Kaye Rules of Order, manipulation in the pursuit of pink Cadillac convertibles must have a place.  I feel guilty saying this, because I got many of my rules from my German mother, and I know she would find the whole Cadillac thing ridiculous, garish and in poor taste.

New rule:  break all the German mother rules.

My epiphany for the day.