105 Days: Ashram Poetry

So…I haven’t written for a while, and it wasn’t for lack of material.  It was because I without computer for too long, and I had too much material, and now so many f-ing errands…you get the picture.

An AUM Meditation Session

I went to an Ashram, the “Desert Ashram” an hour north of Eilat (in the middle of nowhere and in view of Jordan), an Osho Ashram – participated in many, many, many bizarre meditations, some of which I enjoyed, some of which terrified me, and some of which we just plain funny.  Lots of screaming, breathing, vibrating, etc.  And I went to a lecture entitled, “Secrets of the Female Orgasm.”  I was really hoping to learn something.  Instead, I have a hysterical story racked up for a future post.  Go figure.   I slept in a tent for 5 days.  I slept when I wanted.  Ate veggie food.  Read a great sci fi book I brought with me (Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card – read it, if you haven’t).  And basically, had an OK, pretty relaxing time with a bunch of bourgeois pseudo-hippies on an alternative spring break.

Venice

I’m going off to Italy in a day and a half.  Yup.  Italy.  With my family.  We’re converging from many places all over the world.  My two parents from Chicago, my doctor sister from NYC, and my sort of student sister who lives near me but went to Italy 2 weeks early to make a mega-vacation out of it.  The ‘rents bought a cruise for us all last year before the economy went crunch.  So, we’re going.  It’s paid for.  I’m going a week early in order to hike around Pompeii, a dream since I learned about in 3rd grade, eat the world’s best pizza in Naples, experience the majesty of the Amalfi coast, meet up with both sisters for three days of Roman extravagance, and then all three of us are meeting the parental units up in Venice.  For the cruise.  The worst idea for a vacation, I think, as I have terrible motion sickness and have been stockpiling Dramamine (and its Israeli equivalent) since I learned of this idea (thank you Mother).  And from there, Croatia (for 8 hours), a bunch of Greek islands (for 8 hours a pop), and one Turkish island (again, 8 hours).  It’s bad.  I mean, it’s barely a taster.  It’s not even one night.  It’s a stroll, a meal, a souvenir shop, and hey, it’s time to get back on the bus…except it’s a giant boat.  Nothing says Stupid American Tourist like a giant white cruise ship.  Ugh.  And I’ll be one of them.  There are formal nights, too.  I have to go to black tie events…I’m a backpacker for f’s sake! Oh well.  Can’t say no to a free vacation, right?  When we get back to Venice, Mom and I zip off to the other coast and do 4 days in Cinque Terra (dream come true for me, again, lots of hiking, quaint vineyards, artisanal cheeses, views, hiking, food, wine, ham, cheese, wine, and did I mention food…and hiking?).  We end the trip with 1.5 days in Milano before Mom joins me on a flight to Israel…where she’ll be extending her visit for 2 months!!!!!  Which is why, dear friends, readers, countrymen…I got myself a ticket home – Stateside – that be right!  My first trip home to the States in well over a year and a half!  Yeehaw!  And it means I avoid dear Mother for one out of her two months invading my space in Tel Aviv.

I promised poetry, though, right?  Well, if anyone cares for bad poetry-exercise-prompted written at an Osho ashram, there’s some below.  Knowing me though, it’s kind of funny and dirty and crude and cynical.  Everyone was writing about the sky, the sand, the emotions, the sounds of the birds…bla, bla, bla.  WordPress has taken out all my stanzas.  I don’t know why.  So I can’t tell you where one should begin and one should end.  Oh well.  I tried.  Like 5 times.  Go figure, wordpress.  Really.  Well, here we go.  Here’s my take on the Ashram, in verse, no less:

Prompt 1: write a poem of no more than 6 lines which has the title “Desert” or “Kiss”

Desert

There are no more to conquer

No sands too dry

No heat too harsh

No thirst too great

No.

There are no more deserts to conquer

Only from which to escape

(notice me cheating…always…there are 7 lines in that one…cheeky, cheeky…)

Prompt 2: Write a poem on the theme, “The Zorba the Buddha Festival” (the name of the festival I was at, if you can believe it or not)

(translated from the Hebrew…she made me…I don’t like to write in Hebrew…I’m bad at it)

Why do they say Pestival with a “P”?

And not Festival with an “F”?

Why do they wear such stupid clothing like these?

Do they think they’re in India?

Why do they search for answers here?

Do they think the hippies know the secret of life?

The bourgeoisie is coming to the desert

Caravans, caravans, caravans

Toyota, Hyundai, Daihatsu

iPod, Arak, North Face, Crocs

Searching for themselves.

There are no answers.  There are answers.

They go home.  Sand in the car.  Dust in the hair.

Hope remains.  Life goes on until the next pestival.

(it sounded better in Hebrew.  The nuances were lost.  Can you tell?  Too bad I can’t type in Hebrew…not that anyone could read it..)

Prompt 3: Write a poem based on specific physical observations.

Thick, crusty, yellow and warped

The monstrous ugly duckling

Amongst his fair brothers

Protruding above the others in their line

This was not a congenital condition, oh no

No genetic abnormality disturbed his birth

He grew, identical, from toe to tip

Like all his adorable kin

But this little piggy went to market

And that little piggy went home

And while this little piggy ate roast beef

Our little piggy got a mushroom pie

The shameful secret that cannot be hidden here

Under woolen warmth or stiletto style

And thus, and thus, this is the story of the seemingly normal

Seemingly sweet, kind, desert dusted

Feet of my rebirthing neighbor

(Do you guys have any idea how many people suffer from toenail fungus?  It’s nasty.  I mean gross.  I’ve got one borderline nail that I’ve been treating with lacquer-medicine for months now because there is no way I’m turning into Franken-toes.  This person grossed me out to the extreme.  Cmon folks, take care of your feet.  I don’t have the best ones, I know it, but I try.  I try.)

Finally,

Prompt 4: write a poem of no more than 5 lines that contains the words “sex” and “surfboard” and contains a variation on the word “pain”

(Joy of joys…)

Sex with him was to be

Better than chocolate!

Like the best rollercoaster,

A magical surfboard ride!

Hell, he was just another painful poke

And why have a I regaled you with horribly bad ashram poetry?

1) because I can

2) because the Israelis thought I was a bloody brilliant modern day Emily Dickinson (ha!)

3) to prove that I did not, nor do I ever intend to DRINK THE KOOLAID!  Booyah!

4) because I’m procrastinating right now on a massive to-do list…

Goodnight y’all, and good f-ing luck to me!

254 Days: Life Takes Visa?

Think again.

For some reason, I’m having a problem getting an Indian tourist visa.

An Indian Tourist Visa

Why?  I am not a criminal.  I don’t want to live there.  I just want to visit.  I want to eat lots of good food, and spend lots of money, and see their fancy temples and palaces and ashrams.  I even want to take their cramped trains.  And then I want to go home.  So, I travel a lot and I have dual citizenship.  So, sure, I’ve got a pretty full passport.  But there is nothing wrong with me!

I had to write a letter detailing where I work and what I do and what my title is and when I’m traveling and where I’m traveling to and what I am going to do there and why I’m going there in the first place and when I’m leaving.  For pete’s sake.  Lord our god and god of all ages.

I really LOVE India.  I have always wanted to go.  I love the food, I love the people, so much so, that I there are Indian movie stars out there that I would happily give my first born child to just to meet.  I have read The Ramayana.  I have read the Mahabharata.  I have read some modern and not-so-modern books on India.  I have seen films.  I have dreamed of India.  Please, please, please, let me in!

Does anyone have any idea if I have a genuine reason to worry?  I’m set to fly in 12 days!  I need this visa!

286 Days: Taking risks, ashram madness, a downer of a homecoming

Ashram was fantastic.  I prefer it quiet, not like it was over the weekend, busting at the seams with people, a crazy mad amount of new-age workshops and meditation sessions, and tents as far as the eye can see.  I can’t stand the Patchouli crowd for too long.  Visiting is nice.  Dread locks are kind of funky for a while.  But it ain’t reality.  Some highlights:

• AUM Meditation – a student of Osho’s created this method.  It takes 2.5 hours, done with a group, and it goes through twelve stages of human emotion, from anger, to love, to laughter, tears, and much more.  It was a roller coaster, and I felt such release.  Imagine getting to be crazy, getting to scream as much as you need, be hugged by 50 other people, etc.
• Spiritual Leadership – an interesting conversation with a kabbalisticly oriented therapist and leader.  I connected intensely to what she was describing.  Leaders may in fact be born.  I suppose many of us may be born into our purpose.  And if we’re not accomplishing it, we feel immense suffering.  Every one of us is a pipe, a funnel, a conduit.  We receive information, we learn, and we are meant to pass on.  If we don’t, we are stopped up.  Like I need a spiritual plumber…. (ha, ha, ha).
• Laughing Yoga – kind of fun, kind of bizarre.  It’s a “fake it until you make it” kind of process.  All sorts of group exercizes where we are made to laugh.  And we had to laugh whether it was real or not.  Eventually, it became real.  And it didn’t always (I mean, I was there for almost 2 hours).  But the theory is, the body doesn’t know the difference between real laughter and fake laughter.  By laughing, you are tricking the brain into releaseing endorphins.  Laughing can heal dramatically.  Hence, clowns in hospitals, etc.  Don’t know if I would cut out the medical profession altogether, but, hey, I might just force myself to laugh for a couple minutes every day.
• Psychodrama – a type of therapy whereby the person acts, along with the therapist, on a stage, in situations that trigger the person’s issues.  Very interesting indeed.  I was just an audience member for much of this, but it seemed quite powerful and effective.
• Eye contact – every session I went to that involved interactivity stressed eye contact.  Duh.  I come from the theatre world.  I have been in therapy.  Eye contact is very very important.  But I came to realize how difficult it was for many people.  We were instructive to look carefully into each others’ eyes, and still there were people averting their gaze, people looking down, and all sorts of “pretend looking,” taking a quick glance, kind of, and moving away.  Eye contact is powerful.  People cried during exercises where I kept a steady connection.  It helped them to know I was with them and listening.  That I cared.

Anyway, I met some cool people, hung out a bit with some friends I had met at the writing workshop the last time I had been at the ashram, and had a decent, if rushed, weird time.  Excellent chai tea, though.  Decent vegetarian grub.  But they make a killing, they do.  Not cheap to buy the food there, and there is little other choice.  No fires allowed anywhere on the ashram or campsite, so no cooking.  We brought some snacks which helped us skip meals.

But on returning to Tel Aviv, I did not have an easy time.  I slept OK, the cats survived without me.  And there was a new episode of Star Trek Voyager uploaded.  But on waking up this morning, I was in a different world entirely.  Like the weekend hadn’t happened.  Or rather, maybe my reality of being back made it that much worse.  Juxtaposition.  Such a cool word.  Such mixed results in reality.  I had the hardest time getting out of bed.  It took over an hour to convince myself to take a shower.  I hoped that I would be envigorated when I got out, but no.  No.  I was moving through sludge.  I called my assistant to tell her I probably wouldn’t be in but that I’d work from home.  Hardly.  I tried so hard, answered some email, but I fell apart.  I was so tired.  I slept for several hours in the middle of the day.  Then tried to work again.  Then gave up, cleaned out the cat box, and went to a cafe.  Sat and did nothing as I drank a fruit smoothie.  Then feeling guilty, got up, went to a bookstore, and bought my boss a birthday present (it was last week).  Then I went to therapy.

So…it seems I grew up in an environment where I was taught NOT to take risks.  An environment where even if I took a risk, I felt confident that I did not have a safety net, that Mom and Dad were not close behind to catch me or back me up.  Which sums it up pretty well.  Thank you to my therapist for packaging this explanation up so well.

I know I have to leave this job.  It is toxic.  I feel trapped.  Often.  And especially now.  But as I learned in therapy, I somehow believe that I am not capable of earning a living doing something I enjoy.  That staying with the status quo, with the safe, is the best option.  I have completely internalized this.  But being the open-minded smart, ambitious person that I am, have always conflicted with it.  And it’s won out most of the time.  The fear-monger in me.  The anti-risk-taker.  Not any more.

My task this week is to brainstorm and take small steps at coming up with a real option.  A career I can both love and thrive at financially.  Why not?  I am a very capable person.  So what if I am deathly afraid of failure.  Of being without money.  Without an income.  Without a plan.  Of having to crawl back to the family as a shameful failure?

I risk not living a life at all if I don’t just jump…and I still have India.  I will go this year.  I will.  It’s rather cheap from Amman.  Maybe…600-700 USD.  Roundtrip.  Half that of going to the States.  Awesome.

I will be a great chef or personal chef or food media mogul or food writer or novelist or cheesemonger or restaurant critic or documentary filmmaker or…or…or…

Osho

290 Days: Withdrawal pain, work woes, and a messy escape

I am tingling, nauseated, fatigued, jonesing…and trying hard not to freak out.  Three weeks of weaning myself off of Lamictal, and it took this long to feel this bad.  50 mg.  I guess going down gradually is smart.  But I’m quite a bit sick, and I never thought it would be this hard.  I want to curl up in a ball and pass out.  Not have to think about anything.  Not have to work.  Not have to eat.  Not have to shop.  Not have to be a friend to anyone.  I’d really like to get drunk actually or pop a xanax…but I think that’s the wrong idea.  Self-medicating is not going to make this any easier.  And I’m starting to wonder why on earth I decided to get off of this drug.

Ah yes…fuzziness, memory loss, slowly firing synapses, vocabulary shrinkage, and ah, yes, still having some depressive episodes.  So, I thought the drug wasn’t working as well as it did, and why continue with side effects that make writing difficult to impossible.  I think I like the Cipralex.  Lexapro.  It’s OK.  But coming off of the Lamictal is hard hard hard.  Who the hell knew?  I want to scream.  I feel faint.  And I feel angry.  And I can’t do a damned thing about it.  Makes me question the taking of any drug at all!  Maybe I should just, I don’t know, go to therapy three times a week, splurge on massages, retreats, meditation, chocolate and excellent Scotch, and then…who knows…that sounds like a damned happy existence to me!  Who needs psychiatric drugs when there is a world of pleasure out there?!  Fuck.  Wrong.  XXX.  You lose one turn.  Blah.

These crazy symptoms started at work today.  Thought it might be a depressive/slow-ish day, but it escalated and the symptoms stayed physical, not emotional.  Funny thing is that I really needed to be productive today, and for the most part, I was.  Anticipating an emotional swell, I worked as fast as I could to stay ahead of it.  It never came, but the arm tingling, dizziness, funny limb-feeling, breathing weirdness, and faintness sort of built, and I knew I needed to get out of there.

I’m going back to the Ashram tomorrow.  There is a huge festival called “Zorba” going on down there.  Lots of music and lots of meditative new age-y therapy for five days straight.  I’m a bit worries about going down there in my condition.  It only occurred to me this evening that it might not be a good idea.  Then again, these symptoms only happened today.  It could be better tomorrow.  And my dosage only goes down in about four days, after my planned return to Tel Aviv.  I’m also nervous about returning to the Desert Ashram in general.  Last time I was there, my first time, it was an idyllic getaway.  Calm, quiet, peaceful solitude, introspection.  This time I’ll be camping out (not in a comfy dorm bed but out in a tent in the desert), having to provide or buy my own food, along with hundreds of other people.  Sure, it’s a great chance to meet people.  But I’m such a social head case when it comes to stuff like this.  I always thought being at an event like Woodstock would be a life-changing fun experience.  But seriously, I would probably have been the one person who kept to herself.  Wallflower.  Depressive.  Socially afraid.  Why would I think I’d meet people here?  But why not?  I had a great time last time.  So, it’ll be really different.  I have to think of it as an adventure.

It’s probably the withdrawal.  Sure is.  I had planned to do the grocery rounds tonight.  I had planned to pack well.  Get all the bus schedules.  Find a good book.  Buy a new notebook to write in.  Nothing happened.  I sat at home.  Brooding.  Rocking.  Sleeping.  Playing with the cats (who are amazingly friendly nowadays), and feeling guilty about leaving them for 2.5 days.  I have time tomorrow.  But then the guilt piles up.  I should be working hard tomorrow morning, so that it doesn’t pile up while I’m away.  It is technically a work day.  And I’ll be leaving halfway through to catch a series of buses down into the middle of the desert.  Ah life.

Calm the hell down.  Eat more chocolate.  Watch more Star Trek.  It will sort itself out.  It will happen.  You will go camping and meet interesting people.  What is the worst that can happen?  Nothing you cannot survive.  It will be OK.

If only I could find and kill the one mosquito that got into the room and is eating me alive!

G’night dear reader or two or three.  Wish me luck.  Maybe I will dig out a shot of something strong.  Help me through the night…

330: Ashram

I’ve been 29 for just over a month, and I’ve meant to write on so many occasions.  It just didn’t happen.  So typical of blogs.  My day job is very related to the “blogosphere” and there’s been rumour that the blogging bubble has burst.  More blogs have been created than last, obviously.  I mean, who don’t you know that didn’t start a blog at one point?  The point is longevity, no matter what the goals are in blogging.  Endurance.

It’s not been an easy month.  But there has been some light, some fun, and some growth.  I’m proud of myself for getting through it.  There were some horribly depressive streaks.  I watched the entirety of House, the television program, episode by episode, season by season.  Beginning to end.  He is a compelling character.  A superb actor.  And yet another sign of OCD, depression, and goodness knows what else, on my part.

The good stuff, you ask?  I went to the Dead Sea on a whim, the day after my birthday.  I went kayaking in the north of Israel, about a kilometer south of Lebanon, on the very top of the Jordan river.  It was tremendous fun.  But limited.  It took me at least an hour to relax.  I kept getting angry about people splashing me for no reason.  I was frustrated at getting caught in the weeds on the banks of the river.  I was pissed at my kayaking partner who I believed had no idea how to steer or create a rudder with his paddle.  And it was lucky I did relax.  Can you imagine me fuming, fuming (!), in the gorgeous sunlight, in an inflatable kayak, with happy people all around me.  I couldn’t let go.  I didn’t have control of much, my environment, the behavior of others.  The only thing I had any influence over was my mood, my reaction.  And thank god I let go.  Don’t know how, but I did.

Let’s see – other good stuff – joined a gym.  Only went twice, but I did go to the pool twice, too.  Olympic gorgeousness, sunshine, and one of the best things to do in Tel Aviv.  I walked a lot, all over the city, from my house to the beach a few times.  Ate lots of organic food.  Saw a couple of great movies at the cinema (In Bruges and Wall – E).  And I went to a hummus festival, a huge event with the best vendors in the country, Arab, Israeli, Druze, everyone, showing up to show off and sell their wares.  Learned a bit about Chinese medicine, acupuncture.

Can you tell I’m having fun with links?  I like to educate.

And…I went to an Ashram.  An Ashram in the Desert.  The “Ashram Ba’Midbar.” On a whim, too.  And it was the very best thing I could have done for myself.  A friend sent me a link to the place, and it seemed they were hosting a writing seminar led by one of Israel’s most prominent writers, Gabi Nitzan.  His work hasn’t been translated (or rather, the translations haven’t been published yet), but I expect they will soon.  He’s a very talented and interesting person.  So, I got a lift, what in Hebrew we call a “tremp” down to the Ashram with a perfect stranger who turned out to be a successful business and management consultant old enough to be my father, and together we (along with a nice young guy we picked up on the way just back from a year in South America) headed into the middle of nowhere.  Honestly.  In the Negev desert you’d think you were in outer Mongolia or something.  Nothing as far as the eye can see.  In reality it’s about an hour north of Eilat and an hour south of Mitzpe Ramon (by the Makhtesh Ramon – mistakenly known by the world as a crater – it’s not – it’s a unique geological phenomenon – a huge depression in the earth, like a vast canyon or something, which is the remnant of an enormous prehistoric ocean.  What’s left is the Dead Sea, and explains why it’s so salty).

So – the Ashram – in brief, is an oasis.  The most oasis-like oasis you can imagine.  Like out of a film.  A mirage in the desert.  So green, so heavenly, yet tiny, tiny, tiny.  A small clump of buildings and tents centered around a dining hall.  There’s a small swimming pool.  A large domed tent for, who knows, gatherings, meditations.  And a meditation/worship hall.  See, these people have a guru.  Someone called Osho.  A real Ashram it seems.  The one in India is in Puna.  I wasn’t too impressed by the teachings, but you don’t have to be to go and enjoy the place.  The meditations were fun and quite helpful to me, health and emotion-wise.  The Chakra-Breathing meditation allowed me to breath better than I have in months and months.  I have been having a lot of trouble breathing.  A lot of trouble.  I keep changing my mind about whether it’s asthma, allergies, dust, the summer heat-humidity-pollution, or simply great stress.  It’s probably a combination of a few of those.  But whatever it is.  It’s been dramatic.  I feel the difficulty nearly constantly.  Deep breathing helps little, and it’s only temporary.  So, at the Ashram, I slept, I walked in the desert, I met friendly lovely people, I meditated, ate simple and delicious vegetarian food, I let myself be, just as I was, without thinking, analyzing, worrying…and I wrote.

The workshop – very straightforward – a guided three day journey of prompted writing exercises.  We met three times a day.  Each time, we all read what we had written from the prompt of the previous session.  There was little feedback.  But great vibes.  Gabi read his own work to us as introduction to the various themed section.  We started off with birth.  Our perceptions of our own birth.  Or anything that inspired us by the words, “My birth.”  We moved on to childhood, trying to enter the minds and bodies of our child-selves.  Then into animals.  Primal beings.  Then into moments of discovery.  It was moving.  As much by the amount I was able to produce, the quality of what I produced, and the amazing people in the seminar who were so brave to share.  It wasn’t a professional thing.  But it was so helpful, made me focus.  And now I’m forcing myself to write every day.  Discipline for me is hard.

So, I ask you, potential readers I may have out there – would you like an occasional short story?  Some titles to choose from, produced in the last week – “The Carrot Who Would Fulfill His Destiny,” “Star Crossed,” “The Meaning of Meaning” and “Addendum to Meaning,” “On Reality,” “Retreat,” “The Stranger Within,” “Self Pity,” “Cadbury Bunny,” “The Swing,” “Elogy to Peter Pan, or On Seeking a Statue in Hyde Park,” “Nirvana Lost or In Judgement of Reclining Buddha (or Me Igra Rama Le Bira Amikta).”

Or should I just start a writing blog, and let it out separately?

This turned out to be long.  Thank you for reading, if you’ve gotten this far.  My best wishes to you.