>Almost six years ago, I walked into the Quad Cinema on 13th street, and exited: changed. My life was perfectly poised for a post apocalyptic rebirth. That particular day’s minefield included sleeping on the couch in a loft I painstakingly designed and called home with a soon-to-be ex in the next room, and a familial situation in Chicago convoluted enough to be dramatically on par with Tracy Letts’ characters in AUGUST: Osage County.
The film was “What the Bleep do We Know” and it blew my mind. Production values and creative flaws aside (which could be designated as: not so great and many, respectively,) it introduced me to the idea of quantum physics and ushered in a subsequent voracious study period in said physics concepts. Immediately, I went home and ordered several books on Amazon regarding the subject, as well as sending duplicates to my friend Logan who was with me. I was disparate that I’d need to wait for delivery, so impassioned was I, and would have given a considerable caboodle for a Kindle on that day.
The idea that there is a connection between all of us, a desk, a tree, the 79th street Subway station, my mom’s nail polish, Clinton’s cigars, what have you, that could be quantified in a quantum field was intriguing to me beyond words. It rang true. This source/power/force as an overriding, inextricable oneness made infinite more sense than: “Jesus Christ died for your sins. Now go tell the old guy in the wooden booth how you’ve been a bad girl this week.”
I liked the language of these explorations, the basics of these connections. Now, of course the scientific community does not see this as a watershed film and it only gives the loosest skimming of some of quantum physics’ tenets, but that was irrelevant in my case on that day, because the film was a doorway to an idea I had never considered. Film as guru: A way to access, study, be inspired by ways of approaching energy.
I have an extremely low tolerance in my life for bullsh#*. (pardon my French) Perhaps a gentler way of saying that is that my go-to place is one of brutal honesty. For those who are compassionately blessed with innate levels of tact, I can be seen as hard. Every once in a while I will still see a friend wince when I haven’t sugar-coated something enough for him/her. Much of my personal development has been geared to softening edges so as not to inadvertently slice into the hearts of those I’d like to keep around me. That being said, in the land of woowoo spiritual ideas, one can come across a lot of bullsh#*. Or at the very least, things that are presented in a manner so holy and gently, they never resonated with my urban disposition.
The idea of working with energy intrigued me, but in my quest I found it all to be dispassionately vague and incoherent. When a best girlfriend during that war-torn time would try to help me out of the surrounding hostility that was my life, providing generous reiki sessions, the effects seemed to be nebulous at best. I’ve already expressed my disdain for all things too “precious” concerning spirituality or energetic resources, and although I’m certain at the time I was more bitter and armored than a dandelion and bullet-proof vest burrito, reiki was not making any noticeable progressive changes in my life. Yoga made me feel better, but I didn’t really know why. My personal experience with tapping into energy was gross at best, and I had a thirst for more.
Cut to: Incredible India. Adriana was a ridiculously stunning woman… A Brazilian who had been living in Hong Kong for five years, and abroad became the older, wiser sister I never had. Only slightly older—so we could still be besties, but every so often I would look to her for wisdom or to receive admonishment. Although she had the kind of beauty and figure that makes one want to curse God for the inequity of the universe, the most spectacular feature about Adriana was her gregariously-open heart. Plus she had that South American mouth, which did not stop running from 3:30am when we awoke until nightfall. She knew everyone, and everyone adored her.
She really was/is my sister, my compatriot. Adriana wore mascara and I knew she came from a world of high heels and bright lights. Daily we got into passionate arguments with the men in our group trying to prove verities in esoteric discourse. We enjoyed raising our voices in heated, heartfelt debate. Ours was a cosmopolitan consciousness.
One day, early into our tenure, she told me very simply—“there’s something that I do, and I think you would like it, do you want me to show you?” That’s all she would really say about it. It was called deeksha and we went to her little flat, she put on some music and I closed my eyes.
As soon as her hands touched my head, I felt it rush through me—THIS was energy. Heat, movement swirling throughout my body, images flashing—or was it lights? Colors? Intangible, unidentifiable activity coursing through my body. I could not get a hold of it, I could not explain it, it was happening and it was undeniable. I had, for the first time, incontrovertible evidence that something was going on.
She had me lie down for a few minutes, and when I stepped squinting into the mid-afternoon sun adjusting my eyes to find her figure, I eagerly demanded: “WHAT WAS THAT?”
It was called deeksha, and she had just come back from a school near Chennai and a 21-day process that prepped her in learning to facilitate it.
Immediately I organized groups to receive it once a week. Adriana had no choice in the matter. Looking back, I’m not even sure if I asked her if it was ok, which is absurdly rude when I think about it now. But I took the reins and ran with it—corralling together yogi friends that became 20-25 a week receiving the deeksha.
We approached it the way it was introduced to us: no extraneous information, no explanations, no promises. Just come sit down and see. It is meant to be experienced. Not discussed. Visceral, not verbose.
I LOVED that there was no bull sh#* surrounding it. When I pursued looking closer into the teachings from the school that birthed the phenom, I found it to be so open and devoid of any religious rhetoric, or any desire to expand, or ask for your money, or need anything at all from you, that it was ridonkulously refreshing. In the milieu of too syrupy God-stuff, it seemed authentic.
A few years later I learned to facilitate the deeksha myself (or oneness blessing as it was now called, although I have always preferred the Indian term, deeksha) and started to inundate my friends with it.
I love the way that it was presented to me, with no attachments or pomposity, and I like to keep it that way—trying to preserve a balance between holding a reverence while still instilling a sense of “it’s no big deal.” It’s not therapy; it’s a dose of grace. It can rock your world, but so what? Holy is as holy does.
In the city, when someone or something gets a little too involved in any kind of discourse about it, it doesn’t suit my taste—I move it along—I suppose it is my tough love approach overlaying the idea that the entire thing should be experiential in nature rather than philosophical.
Yet the experience has absolutely changed me and those around me. My neighbors tell me (without my asking) that I am consistently one of the friendliest people in the building. My facialist’s curmudgeonly Russian husband who I thought never smiled, ever, just gave me a huge tooth-mouthed grin and a large wave when I passed him on my bike.
I could go on about the levels of compassion and generosity of spirit that have unfolded for me in this process, but I’m not really in a la-di-da mood at the moment, so let me just say I am better. More patient. More compassionate. Full of love. Still don’t have a tolerance for bull sh#* so I guess that’s not going to change.
I write this because tonight I’m entering into a workshop for this business and I know I’m going to come out of it different. Possibly more la-di-da. Although I don’t think I’ll be walking on water, I know that Sunday I’ll be shinier than I am today. Perhaps I’m not even spiritual, maybe I’m just vain. In any event, that– for me– is worth the effort.
