I could feel myself slipping into “can-do” mode—into the desire to deep clean my closet and drawers, to fold the laundry and scrub the toilet bowl, to somehow appease an inherent sense of guilt and/or obligation—but I resisted. I made so much progress at work today, and felt I should plow ahead at home, but I came to my senses. The laundry basket is at the foot of the bed, spilling over, looking perfectly messy and voluptuous in red and white floral, gray and white polka dot. My boots are kicked against the dresser, looking alive and lived in. Johann Sebastian Bach—composer, organist, harpsichordist, violist, and violinist—is kickin’ it, and so am I. And so I am. This is a lived in room, after all, not an exhibition or stage set. In the same vein, these are lived in bones. This is loved in flesh. This be a worn out, famous heart. It’s gonna keep trucking on. “I think I can, I think I can …”
Love. It is all I can write about. Is there any other subject?
On Sunday I dedicated my yoga practice to “loving bigger,” all the while wondering what exactly that meant. Does loving bigger mean burning incense for the ones I’ve lost, for those who’ve gone missing, purposefully or unwittingly? Yes. Does it mean blessing those who’ve disappointed, those who’ve let me down? Yes. (Sing it, Ben: “Yes indeed I’m alone again/and here comes emptiness crashing in … yesterday seems like a life ago/cause the one I love/today I hardly know/you I held so close in my heart, oh dear/grow further from me/with every falling tear.”) And does it mean rolling to my right side, sitting up, standing up, raising my arms to the sky, and opening my heart with an outrageous, ego-defying back bend? Yes, I think so.
It always hurts a little, it always leaves you sore. But you must. You gotta move on.
The terrain changes, and one must adapt (one must love what is—and love it well). The map doesn’t change, however. We have to keep this in mind. We still know where we were: where we loved, where we gave it up, where we lost it. It is there, on the map, beneath the index finger of a meticulous, pulped-out heart. The other index finger, the dominant one, is pointing here, at the point of arrival. It is pointing here, at a town called Uncertainty, which is wedged awfully close to a town called Hope.
And so we arrive. We show up. We may feel a little disheveled and scattered, but Goddammit, we get out of bed and we show up. We nervously indulge in a diner breakfast and three cups of mediocre coffee in Uncertainty, pay the bill, and move on to Hope. We laugh while en route, thinking, “I don’t usually like omelets and M&Ms, but right about now, I do.” We roll into Hope at midday, our t-shirt clinging to our back, our mind a bit freer, a bit looser and wobblier after miles of nothingness, miles of grassland and Neil Young. Stepping out of the car, testing out our sea (road?) legs, we realize that this, the trip to Hope, is the ultimate road trip. We’ve always wanted to visit—and maybe even stay awhile in—Hope.
And so we do. We arrive in Hope, where we get a reasonably priced hotel room and indulge in room service. We dine on the terrace. The meal is sub-par, but never mind. This is Hope, after all; this is a place to stay in Hope, this is room service, this is a frickin’ terrace; from here, we can see wild lilies and the ocean. This will do.
In the morning, after a mellow, uneventful rest, we stop by the front desk and ask (politely) for a free map. “What do you recommend?” we ask the desk clerk, an Indian man married by arrangement. “Madam,” he replies, wiggling his head from left to right, “Realization is a lovely destination, worth the short but steep climb.”
Realization, you realize, is not a place you had thought of visiting—or staying, that is. Do they serve run-of-the-mill road food in Realization, you wonder, or do they cater only to my deepest cravings? Good God, do they serve luscious, satisfying things in rooms off Realization Highway? Do they even have a frickin’ highway, or do I have to get there by way of desolate, unmarked roads? Will I ever see the comforting (guiding?) light of malcontent again, or will I succumb to a quiet life of luscious, satisfying things?
You see, I’ve been dwelling in a town called Possibility all these years—a town inhabited by the likes of Emily Dickinson—and to be frank, I’m not sure I’d do all that well in a town called Realization. If I really settled in, if I really, truly set up camp in Realization, would I die in my tent? Would my dreams and ambitions come to a halt, would I stop breathing?
Once, while lying beneath a magnificent, sun-domed oak tree in Multnomah Village with my best friend, I confessed that when I am most deeply content, my inclination is to close my eyes and slip away into a deep sleep, into a God-given dream. Is this what I would do in Realization, I wonder? Would I surrender, give up? Would I stop fighting (for beauty, justice, rightness), and in so doing, stop caring? Would I grow fat, lazy, numb, pedestrian?!
“I am afraid of Realization,” I blurt out. The Indian man shakes his head. “But Madam, why would you be afraid of Realization? It is a steep climb, sure, but once you reach Realization, you’ll have a great sense of perspective; you’ll be able to see all the roads you took in getting there, and without binoculars! It promises to be absolutely stunning, Madam!”
With this, I nod, settle my dues, throw my bag(gage) over my shoulder, and walk to the car, my legs feeling lean and my heart feeling unreserved and fucking brave. I toss my bag and myself into the car, adjust the rearview mirror, and say it: “Realization, here I come.” And then I turn the key, step on the gas. Good God, be with me now …
Here is to Loving Bigger.
