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Last week I wrote a post about singing your little soul out to the Universe to foster that beneficent, yummy super abundant, secure connection to, ya know, Everything.

Just click right here if you need to catch up on that.

I wanted to build on that post because sometimes in the depths of the ick, it’s tough to get there.  When momma’s having a sh**y day, she’s not thinkin’ of singing to sunshine.  Also, when we’re in different stages of healing or different levels of consciousness, our communication desires and needs are different.  No one way is wrong because what works for one person or one moment at one time is exactly the perfect action for him or her.

Have you ever used a Vitamix?  Man, those things are like the Lamborghinis of blenders.  I have been coveting one for years and I think that this is the month I finally break down (tiny closet-sized West Village kitchen be darned,) scootch the juicer westward on my granite, forsake all countertop space whatsoever and bestow a permanent parking spot to my very own Vitamix.

This thing can make smoothies out of golf balls.
In 12 seconds.
It’s the bomb.

I’m all about Love.  I have two teensy love tattoos on my wrists to remind me to ask for Love each time I bless something out.  I am all for the underlying Universal Love and the acceptance of this Truth and the inadvertent, unconscious pull we have to rejoin with this Love.

But I’ve also been seeing a lot of blind black and white regarding Love and Its pursuits.

Reaching for love?
Rather than being: the best!  We are now substituting achievement for being guided: to be love!

This might seem off topic for me, since I would, never, ever ever claim to be any sort of chef.  Particularly because I tend to be a persnickety foodie and have a discerning palate that annoyed my mother throughout my childhood.   (What do you do when your 10 year old refuses to eat cold cuts?  Oh, mom, I’m so sorry, thank you for putting up with me…)

Most seriously, I’ve been interested in nutrition since about 16 and remember going to the Whole Foods in college thinking: I wish I could buy stock in this; this is the future.  Whole Foods wasn’t a public company then, nor did I have any money, but still, the interest had been birthed.  Oh, if only!

I sat across from my father, an early Christmas stopover before heading West for work.

“This would never happen in Europe.  What is wrong with this country?”

He was speaking of course, of the atrocious massacre at Sandy Hook last week.  Its horror stunned the nation.  My father, having been born and spent a large portion of his life in Europe, was a man who barely watched television.  Never when we were growing up.  He adored art and culture and would have no idea who the Kardashians are, were someone to mention their name(s.)

He was right: this would never happen in Europe.  What is wrong with us?

“Let go” is probably the most annoying and inaccurate thing a person can ever say to you.  I’m equally irked when a masseuse whispers “relax” as I’m lying prone on his/her table.

Lady, if I knew how to relax, I wouldn’t need a MASSAGE.

If we knew how to let go, we wouldn’t need a spiritual practice.

Now that I am back home safe in my apartment this afternoon with heat, light, unlimited internet and a phone that works, it seems unfair that my “Sandy” experience will draw to a close when I know so many others are still suffering.

Half a dozen of my closest male friends remained downtown.  Urban cowboys riding a snapshot of what a post apocalyptic world could look like.  They texted me stories of subsisting on pancakes or whisky, growing beards and going for days without showers.  They would trek to charge their cellphones at (marginally generous) NYU and hunker back down into their forts of darkness.  As a nod to the New York-y shortening of consolidating neighborhood names (Soho, Nolita, Noho,) they began to refer to themselves as SoPo residents.  As in: South of Power.  My neighbor told me, there was a pride in toughing it out.  This was their home, their people, their connection.  They could not abandon ship.

I am in the jungle in India.  My comma key has broken on my laptop. The chances of that getting fixed before I leave are: none.  So this will be a post devoid of commas.

So- I go for intensely long walks.  Preferably beachy ones.  Alone- where I can meander for hours and not see a soul.  I have been gifted this kind of solo experience time and again- even in busy locales.  Mexico. All over the Caribbean. California. Vermont.  Fiji.  India.  A thousand times by the Hudson river.  But my favorite is when I am far far away from home and no one knows where I am. There’s no sign of life for kilometers at a time and always the thought: if something happened- no one would know.  Totes morbid.