On Enlightenment, Sister Mary and Cosmos

"The road to enlightenment is long and difficult, and you should try not to forget snacks and magazines."

— Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies

It hasn’t the been easiest start to a year ever. (It hasn’t been the hardest either. Still…) In the past weeks, each time I arrived at a fork in the path of life, instead of the way widening and becoming clearly lit as I hoped, it seemed I was faced with a multitude of signs that declared STOP or SLOW or You'd Better U-Turn Here. Were I French, I’m sure I would have run into my favorite, ubiquitous French street sign seen at roundabouts: Vous n’avez pas la priorite. You do not have priority here!

A dear friend of mine turns to meditation and prayer in times of extreme stress. This would be a Maui friend. My Maui friends turn to the heavens and shamans and prayer and angel cards more often than my New York friends -they turn more to cosmos and The New Yorker. I go back and forth.

I believe meditation can be helpful and I mean to do it first thing in the morning, but I’m always halfway through that first cup of coffee and New York Times website before I remember. By that point, the caffeine has shot the potential benefit of mediation straight to hell – sorry – so I think, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll start.” The truth is I have trouble sitting still, and I have yet to get comfortable with prayer. My religious upbringing was almost nonexistent and only relatively recently have I begun to figure out how I fit into the whole Believing thing.

When I was 6, my family moved to Italy and I began 2nd grade at the St. Francis International School of Rome. My teacher was the thin, stern Sister Mary. As family lore goes, I took quite keenly to the strict Catholic teachings. My religious frenzy peaked one morning over breakfast as I stood beside my father and sang a hymn about “eating his body” and “drinking his blood." I then pontificated on how the rest of my family was headed straight to hell. My father yelled out to my mother something to the effect of FIX THIS! She promptly called the Swedish Lutheran Church of Rome and a nice pastor drove to the outskirts of the city to go many rounds with me on the topic of religion, or rather, Catholicism. He apparently left in a sweat, but victorious nonetheless. I remember none of this.

The rest of my youthful years contained virtually no religious or spiritual guidance. As a family, we only went to church on Christmas Eve and the rare Easter. My mother claimed claustrophobia in churches, and once a year was the best she could do. At age thirteen, I was sent to confirmation camp in Sweden because my mother had gone. Tradition. Mostly, I remember making friends, biking to the mini-golf, and eating soft pear ice-cream. On our confirmation day, everyone handed out the religious version of business cards - little, white cards with our names and Biblical pictures. Kind of like Pokeman cards, only with small doves and Bibles. When my family moved to Rhode Island, we lived in a lovely house on Elm Street encircled by churches. Sitting on our deck eating Sunday breakfasts, we could see the churchgoers arrive. My father would yell out, “Give my regards to God!” and then settle in with his coffee and pancakes. Watching my parents die did nothing for my spiritual growth. If anything, it sent me reeling in the opposite direction.

At age 32, I moved to Maui for a short respite from life. I fell into an almost dream-like state and before the plumeria blossoms could flutter to the ground, I was at new moon gatherings, soaking paper in the full moon glow, and sitting in circles as powerful entities were channeled. I experienced shamans and intuitive readings and swam with wild dolphins - a spiritual experience if I've ever had one.

Back in New York, I continued the exploration, even visiting a shaman in a post-war apartment building; his den was full of nature, crystals and magic, and his eyes were the color of clouds. One particularly odd night, I found myself sitting on a metal folding chair in a West Side townhouse, chanting sanskrit while the image of a yogi was projected onto a screen.

I'm not sure yet where all this has led me, nor can I clearly define my belief system. I do believe that sometimes yelling, "What the fuck!" feels really, really good. I also believe that if something feels good, be it a shamanic session, playing pool in a dark, dank bar, downward dog or, yes, a Cosmo, then I'll do it. I believe in gathering, reading, listening and learning, and taking in any and all snippets that inspire and have meaning for me. I believe in my friends. I believe in the power of waterfalls, laughing until my stomach aches, a good red-faced-nose-dripping-blubbering-cry (even in an unfortunately public place) and, of course, snacks. And I know that nothing stays one way forever; somewhere around the corner is the street sign that reads This Way, For Sure, or Nothing but Smooth Roads Ahead.