FYI: if you Google god, this is what you get.

This morning I woke up late and arrived at Swim Cafe late to write the blog late. Sam got here right after me and we stood at the counter visualizing breakfast options while I told him about Janet Jackson giving my dance group $22 million to make a dance film in my sleep. I'd asked for a guiding dream before bed actually, so this was encouraging.

As it happened, before bed I was in low spirits. I'd been too busy all day, and got to rehearsal late and without eating. Furthermore, Erica had our crutch wings visually enhanced, which made them twice as heavy and globbed with fiberglass. I have to lift these things with my arms and legs, see. I have to dance with them. So at a few moments, during the working with them, my eyes welled up in like anger and fear and exhaustion. I came up against something internally, I think. I know the thing, too. It's a thing I've run into before, the limit of where I am comfortable hanging out and working and being cool. It is the line between "ok" and "not ok." Just getting there takes some doing, to say nothing of crossing over. And somehow, even though running into it kind of smashes my physical and emotional feelings, I seem to like running into it, for reasons that just made sense about an hour ago.

Last night, though, after the smashing, I walked to the train with a reverence for my crippledness, amazed at how spent and uneasy I could be. Don't misunderstand; I felt terrible. I wanted to crawl into a fetal donut and get pet on the head by someone nice while I whimpered. It was a crying "mommy" moment, although my experience does not support the crying of "mommy" as an effective help-getting practice. Walking south on Milwaukee, I texted a friend about the limit I'd reached. He replied, perfectly maybe, "The only option is to see what's on the other side... or to sleep." As I hauled myself up the stairs, I reported I'd be doing both at once. I ran a hot bath, opened a beer, and drank my dinner in the tub while exfoliating shards out of my limbs. I put on the too big pants for pajamas and asked for a guiding dream with my guiding dream asking ritual, which is honest to god an unmagical yet cogent routine involving a rock and a stick and a cigarette. Then Janet Jackson gave me twenty two million to dance.

The dream helped me some. When I told Sam about Janet at the bagel counter, he said he didn't know that I regarded her so highly. "I didn't either, but my dreamguides must know something I don't. I was real down last night. I got super tired and hungry and I'm really broke right now and have way too much non-paying work, you know, so like, I was scrambled and they were on top of it I guess."

"It is pretty good. Twenty two million from someone less famous would still be good."

"Also Paul McCartney was there, though he was young and black - I think he was played by Jamie Foxx but I knew he was Paul, you know how it can be like that. He said I was really talented. And not to forget that I am a musician first or something. Then we did some coke with a beautiful and sweet ex-con I was making out with. A bank robber, no lie. I mean, that part is from real life."

"I didn't think you did coke."

"What? No. Coke is for assholes. I mean, I made out with a gorgeous bank robber recently. Well, he's a sculptor. But he used to be a bank robber. I should tell you about it. Lovely man. Absolutely lovely. A gem of a human. And enormous. Like, a giant. My forehead came up to here on him. I'm not kidding. He could lift me up in one hand, which he did. I mean, it was, I don't know, I don't know if I can tell you about it right now."

"I don't know if I can eat a quiche right now."

"You could just get one piece."

"I could, but I'm not going to. I'm going to get a bagel."

"I'm going to get the scone with all the bacon in it."

Sam and I sat down. Sam opened his book and I opened a little composition window after deleting all my spam comments. Neither of us got any work done for at least an hour. First we were talking about the wedding this weekend, and then about religion, and we might have been getting to ethics but I interrupted. "You want to know what I think about god?"

"Yeah?"

"I smell fear behind your yeah."

"That's because of the way you just set that up."

"Oh, right. Well. Can I tell you? And then you can tell me all the people that already thought of that before me?"

"Sorry. Do I do that?"

"I love it when you do that. I usually think these are my own ideas that I came up with, so it's nice to know that smart people have thought my thoughts. Even if other smart people think my thoughts are bullshit."

"Well, the idea is to provide an alternative---"

"I know, I know. So the thing is that I don't think god is a guy..."

Although I went on, I spoke more slowly than usual, because it turns out god is hard to explain. I stared out the front window at the spot just underneath the backwards blue lettering, where I look when I'm trying to find words for things, and I did what I do when I try to find a word for something, which is to bring it to mind in every possible way. From the front and back and sides, to go into it and step out of it and know what it is and how it relates to a person or a chair or a chihuahua, whether it is waterproof or bulletproof or 90 proof. And usually when I do this, when I open myself up to all the things a thing might be, I come up with a good word or phrase for the thing. Maybe even a newish one. The problem was that I was doing this with god, and so what happened was I started crying and Sam asked me if I was ok.

I'm telling you this for a very specific reason that I don't understand all the way, because it is not something I really approve of chattering about casually. It is private to a degree that completely shatters any makeout session with any hot felon anywhere. (Sorry, dear. I adore you, I do. But this is about the unfathomable great light of all universes. You feel me.) Today I want to tell you about this because, after some weeks of feeling disconnected from my contemplative writing mojo, I worried that my increased involvement in the art and dance and performing worlds was cutting me off from my sparklier realms, the height and depth, the sharpness (though I have not missed the basketcasitude, to be honest). I hoped I was wrong, that they were not separate paths, and I think I got that confirmation. I danced and arted and performed all the way up to and maybe over the boundary of my comfort zone (the place where most of our yoga practice is spent by the way), and my body and heart and spirit cracked a bit, which I hate to say, is how the light gets in.* Also the money from Janet.

If I were going to talk more about this, I might say it’s really good to talk about god ideas, but really tricky to talk about god experiences, because talking ruins the best things, and accidentally crying out of overwhelming awe is pretty much the best, most ruinable thing. But I’m not going to talk more about it really. There isn’t a lot to say. I carried it with me for a few hours, this openness, which made normal tasks obstacular, if blinding heart light could be called an obstacle. Here’s a thought though: to what is the great light of all universes an obstacle? Anything worth giving a crap about? I wonder. I will think about that for next time.

Speaking of comfort zones and not talking about god, this Friday night I am leading a two hour Yin Yoga workshop at Namaskar, which you are welcome to read about here.



*(Yes, Leonard Cohen said that, but it's pretty good.)