>I have been so energetic and happy for the last two months, I think for sure there’ve been times that I uber-annoyed my facebook friend list with too too exclamation-y posts. My body has been walking around vibrating like a thousand trapped butterflies within the sheath of my skin, fluttering to be free. 5 ½ hours sleep has been the regular nightly average and I’ve had maybe one of my most productive stretches of time, ever. I assume this is what crack feels like, without the negative side effects.
People that talk about “feeling the energy” surrounding them, used to irk me to no end. And now, look ma. Here I am.
In the stuff that I teach, there were two approaching milestones, a big trainers conference in LA (the first of its kind) and the approaching date of February 11th 2011, a day that the final energetic switch is supposed to happen to propel us to the highest states of consciousness of all time. (Don’t even bother the seatbelt or airbag prep for this one– you’re gonna have to completely let go to get there.) I literally could feel them coming, in my body—it was resonating with the approaching greatness, in all its butterfly crack-i-ness.
These are the big guns. Move over small peanuts: peace of mind, healed relationships, just a little more joy, we are talking huge quantum leaps these days. This is another dimension. We are talking about, and seeing, enlightenment, full God-realization, normal people going in and out of Samadhi. Urban moms, dads in jeans and gym shoes, regular people: FULLY AWAKE.
I meet these people. They are totally normal. You’d never know. The higher the state, the less affected they are. Their reason is grounded, their outlook gorgeous in its simplicity and practicality.
The LA conference was mysteriously looming, and out came a couple of grey thought clouds circling. In hushed whispers of guilty apprehension, we spoke in tinges of worry going in. There was a new process to be revealed. It was our job to spread this learning. It was kinda being kept top-secret and rumored to have the gurus at the forefront, when oneness has always been about—hey, bring whatever feels good to you here.
And so my thousand batting butterflies and I get to LA, and they go into overdrive inside of me. Joy joy joy, the excitement is palpable. The sunshine, the people, the vibe is dazzling.
As we get into the weekend and into the new processes, I am thrilled, beside myself with giddy. There are more traditional Indian practices being intertwined, practices that are already a regular part of my daily life, pujas, aarti, kirtan—it’s like my two worlds of spirituality are meeting in marriage. We’re given information for practices I’ve been doing for years and it feels like coming home.
Then we come to the first big process. The first step for what we are supposed to bring home with us to our communities. Our monk tells us how powerful it’s going to be. That it will knock some of us off our feet.
Hours past chanting, meditating, clearing, centering, we get to the thick. And sure enough, people are falling over. Literally. Fainting, screaming, going into fits of shaking. Knocked out, and troops of volunteers have to carry a substantial portion of people away to lie in another corner of the room, because they are OUT cold. It’s like a scene from the Arthur Miller play THE CRUCIBLE. People are going wackjob.
And there’s the inside voice that comes up. “What the f**k is happening here???… OMG… this has gotten SO weird.” Apprehension. Worry. Can I see my friends in on this? Will New York ride this weird train of woo? I see the thoughts. I let ‘em hang.
I woke up at 5:30 that morning. Still on New York time. We started at 8am, it was about 11pm at this point. I was on my last legs. It was my turn to go up. I stepped forward, wanting it, and…. Nothing. Nothing at all. I waited. Nothing.
I went to savasana in a corner of the giant conference room with my pillow, maybe thinking something would seize me as I lay down, but nope, nothing. I was bored. Irritated. I looked around after a bit, I wanted to hold space of support for the people who had yet to go, but I could no longer muster it; it was past midnight and I thought, dude, I need to go to bed. We were starting at 7am tomorrow. I needed some sleep or I would bite someone’s face off.
I was feeling tired, disgruntled, slightly confused. Disappointed. Arriving to my room well after midnight, my roommate emerged from the shower, towel drying her long hair. I was relieved to see she hadn’t held out to the bitter end either, and watched an “utterly jealous” reaction float by that she had washed her hair—I was desperate to find time to do mine.
We broke our mauna (silence) of two days, both exasperated, unsure.
“I don’t know if I can get on board with this…” we echoed. The screaming, crying people. The fits. The shaking. The overall total weirdness of it. It brought up every judgment and conditioning. I was in ecstasy when all the processes looked the way I liked them to. When it got uncomfortable? I wanted out.
As I lay down to sleep, it hit me. All told, it probably took about two minutes, but the greatest fear and desperation of my life came rushing at me like a tsunami. I cried out to my guru, in anger, total helplessness.
I was paralyzed with fear unlike any I had experienced.
My. Life. Is. Nothing. This is a fraud. Everything I believe, hold dear, my world, my soul: vanished, annihilated, missing, a lie. Everything.
“How dare you? How dare you come into my heart and take me over and betray me? How dare you leave me behind, alone without you?” The fear, no the abject TERROR seized my body, and I went to the now automatic place of summoning the guru to witness it, and I could not. I could not even form the words of the mantra in my mind—I was furious, abandoned. Utterly alone.
This was my Gethsemane. Without a doubt. In the bible the Gospel of Luke quotes “Jesus’ anguish in Gethsemane was so deep that ‘his sweat was as it were great drops of blood falling down to the ground.’” Mine was sandwiched in between too big, too soft Sheraton pillows. Damn Sheraton pillows, why didn’t I bring my travel tempurpedic? I was bitter, barren. One of the greatest songs in musical theatre history is a five and a half minute epic “Gethsemane” in JESUS CHRIST SUPERSTAR. My experience was more desolate, dissonant, shorter than this show-stopping rock ballad. There were no lozenges in my green room to soothe.
“Screw you. Screw this. I can’t believe I dedicated so much of myself to this, to you, and now what? What is anything anymore?” This was my LIFE. This was my everything. Not just the most important thing, THE thing. And now this? This weirdness? This mania? This nutbag assortment of absolute bizarre insanity? Where is my mac daddy Bhagavan who fills me with the sparkly shiny awesomeness? He was gone. I couldn’t even see his face. I was pissed. Desperate. My foremost thought was, “Why have you forsaken me?!?”
It was the most acute emotion I have EVER experienced. It lasted a short total of two minutes, and I dropped to sleep, sucked into a vortex of calmed darkness.
The next morning I awoke at 6am tired, spent, neutral. We had a morning chakra meditation and were to connect with the guru afterwards and I sobbed. Sobbed. Sobbed. I wanted them back. Please, I begged. I need you. I need your love. This HAS to be real. You must be what I have seen you to be. Please come back to me. Show me, show up. It’s you. It’s all you. Take over.
You must show me. I cannot go back to New York and stand behind this and bring this to people who trust my discerning opinion and real, gritty outlook, without the goods. I cannot, I will not, go forth blindly in faith with this. You MUST show me something. I need to know. I need to know RIGHT NOW.
I had time to shower before the afternoon session. Just this, felt so incredibly comforting. Pujas of devotion followed and I saw my love was back, vast and devoted, but my negotiation firm. I needed to see the money.
We sat in preparation and the handsome man next to me, some years my senior, leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Some ride, huh?”
His eyes twinkled, almost wickedly in his knowing.
Our gaze locked and we had the silent acknowledgment of people who had been through it, who had found groundedness, only to be thrust into the unknown again. He introduced himself as Bill. He was not some wackjob off somewhere, he was right here. I was so grateful for this exchange. For his teasing, for his generous smile.
And the process went on. This was it. This was the one they called the bulldozer, and today was only just the preview, the real money was supposed to rain after the February 11th date.
When it was my turn to go up and take a blessing from the Sri Murthi, which is a picture, but actually carries the living presence of the guru within it, the terms had been set. I knelt, it was go time, I placed my hands on the feet of the gurus in the image and then… got… lost… completely.
Involuntary bawling. Blubbering. Snotty, not pretty, blubbering. I wore a lot of mascara today. That was not a good idea. Sobs so great my chest heaved, I, almost hyperventilating. There was no emotion, no thought preceding this. It was waves of energy, coming from the Sri Murthi—a kind I had not felt before, gentle like an incoming Caribbean tide, as warm and as slowly deliberate. My palms were sweating; moisture wicked from them to the glass over the image. This was not something I was doing. I had not worked myself into this state—I had absolutely no control over it. I heard myself sobbing and I had not made those noises before. After some time, I stood, cautiously, a little wobbly, but on my own two feet and went to lie in savasana.
Relief. Hope. Gratitude. Grace. I was lost and I was found.
Later I realized, I would not have been one of those convulsing people. I always want the real, the practical, why would the paranormal “the Crucible” version take me over? It wouldn’t because I didn’t expect it. I wouldn’t have been knocked flat because I didn’t want to be.
Which of course now has me rethinking that entire supposition, um, kinda WANT to be knocked over, so will need to reframe that in my mind. Or have a good old convo with the holy ‘rents. Next time? I’ll bring my tempurpedic pillow to lie on; knock me flat—I’m light, I’ll be easy to carry.
But this time, I had seen exactly what I needed to see. All had been perfect. Not pretty, but perfect.
Our monk said “if someone told me that standing on my head against the wall spelling backwards from Z-A would bring me enlightenment, I would do it. I would do anything, provided that it works.”
I started this whole journey not ever thinking I would be where I am. The rest of the conference, I floated. That night I had thai food and went to bed early. The next, I donned four inch heels and watched some of my dearest friends rock out in their superstardom at a hot venue in LA, we wrapped up the night with two in the morning veggie burgers at the Roosevelt hotel.
I giggle more. Only joy meets me. Things are effortless.
There’s nothing but love here. And if a few hours of conference room weirdness, a few hours of taming and letting go and surpassing the mind, of letting go of anything I hold dear so that all I hold dear is brought to me in brighter, vibrant waves of experience and passionate process that is life? If that’s all it takes? A brief shot of pain, confrontation, surrender for endless amounts of bliss? Even if it looks ridonkulously bizarro? That’s it? Ok, I’m in.
