Stop Being Mean to Yourself Page 14

  “It’s the spirit of a thing that counts overall,” I read. “And this is a book about the spirit of self-love.”

  Suddenly, standing there reading to the interrogator from my wrinkled piece of paper, I got it. The lights came on in Tel Aviv. This interrogation wasn’t punishment, nor was it torture—even though it certainly felt as if it was. The world wasn’t against me. Life was trying to show and teach me something.

  I was supposed to tell this interrogator my story. This wasn’t an accident. It was an important part of the book, the trip, and my life.

  I had been so busy feeling tormented I hadn’t seen it. I didn’t get it in Cairo, the first time it happened. But that was all right. Lessons don’t go away. They keep repeating themselves until we do understand.

  The second I saw this, the interrogation ceased.

  The young woman smiled.

  “You can go now,” she said. “Have a good flight.”

  I reached the Air France gate minutes before the boarding call. As I walked down the ramp on the way to the plane, I realized something had slipped my mind. I had forgotten to show my interrogator the interview notes from my day trip to the terrorist hills in Algiers.

  No sense stirring that pot, I thought. It was an honest mistake. Besides, I’ll miss my flight.

  Oops, again.

  I settled into my seat on the plush French airliner. The country of France had shown me the beauty of its art in the Louvre and a history course in the eternal themes of life at the Museum of Man. Now the French were showing me something else, too. They knew how to enjoy the good things in life. I had even heard the French people were switching to a four-day work week. They were willing to take less pay to have more time to enjoy life’s pleasures.

  The steward brought me a cup of coffee and offered me a pastry. It was golden, light, filled with cheese. I didn’t have to worry about this food. I took a sip of coffee, inhaling its rich aroma, and leaned back in my seat.

  I was on my way home.

  chapter 12

  Graduation

  I disembarked the Air France airliner at LAX, anticipating the worst as I prepared to pass through customs. My last two airport security experiences had left me shaky. It surprised me when I handed the customs officer—a woman—my declaration form, paid my sixty-five dollars in duty, and immediately gained entry into the United States without fuss, ado, or a prolonged interrogation.

  A young gentleman, a porter, assisted me with my luggage. I ran to the exit gate. Nichole had promised to be here to meet me. As I rounded the ramp, I reached into my pocket, pulled out my cotton kerchief, and stuck the white rag on my head.

  When I walked into the main part of the terminal, Nichole scanned me. She didn’t recognize me at first. Then her eyes widened in recognition, and she burst into laughter.

  We hugged. Now I knew I was home.

  One day soon after my return, Nichole rang me up on the phone. She initiated the conversation the way she usually does when she telephones.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Trying to figure it out,” I said.

  “Figure what out?” she asked.

  “Life,” I said.

  “Like the rest of us know and it’s a big secret we’re not telling you. Well, keep working on it,” she quipped. “Let me know when you get the answer, and I’ll tell you if you’ve got it right.”

  Although we were bantering, our conversation summarized my overall response to the trip. I had found many useful, invaluable, and enlightening pieces in the Middle East. I had found the Key to Power. Mysteries had been revealed. But despite my discoveries, something was still out of sight, out of grasp, and just out of reach.

  I hadn’t yet found the missing piece.

  One of the first things I did when I returned home was to lighten my hair. My friend and hairdresser, Angelo, who had darkened my hair for the trip, now began to turn me blonde. He insisted it was an important part of my life, my work, and this book. He said my auric field was lightening, and it would help to have my hair lighter too, for a while. I didn’t argue. Angelo had an uncanny ability to synchronize my hair with my life. My hair and clothing had now become almost costumes—important, but still costumes. For some reason, it felt natural to go lighter and become a blonde.

  It took a month to heal my stomach from the effects of drinking the Moroccan milk. I also discovered that what demanded healing wasn’t just the current effects of drinking milk processed differently than my digestive track could assimilate. The entire excursion had spurred and activated a much deeper healing process. Whether I consciously desired to go through this intense and often surprising agendum was irrelevant. The wheels had been set in motion. There was no turning back.

  The crescent moon and star continued to appear—on signs, on posters, on jewelry, and occasionally in the early morning sky. I still didn’t understand what this sign meant. But I knew it was an important picture—a sacred symbol that spoke directly to my heart and mind.

  Old treasured values resurfaced and reappeared. Love thy God with all thy heart, and soul, and mind. Honor the Sabbath—whatever day your heart says the Sabbath is. Do not covet. Love thy neighbor. And, borrowing Tommy Boy’s favorite line, for the love of God remember to love yourself.

  It had been one thing to see the forces of the universe at work when traveling through the western United States. It had been another to see the universe dance for me in terrorist-infested nations halfway across the globe.

  This trip had revitalized my faith in God, in the universe, and in myself.

  It would take months for me to integrate what I had learned and understand the importance of what I had seen. I hadn’t just collected a few trinkets of wisdom to keep in a treasure chest and take out and examine at my leisure. I had been undeniably changed by what I had seen and experienced, by all that had taken place.

  I was being transformed.

  I had been through an initiation. It had included a review and demonstration of key lessons of the past. But this obstacle course I had stumbled through had also revealed important clues about how the energy at this new level would work.

  As we ground or sped toward it—depending on the mood of the day—we had all embarked upon a new time.

  The millennium had arrived.

  The word “mystery” grew in importance. Lessons and insights began to unfold with the subtle intrigue of a Raymond Chandler mystery novel plot. Slowly, I began to trust and sometimes play with this energy, almost the way I would play a parlor game. Trying to know too much too soon or before it was time created a tormented inner struggle. Resistance led nowhere worth going. It only caused pain.

  “Integrity” became a key word, too. Anything could happen at this new level, but it wasn’t a time of anything goes. Manipulation, hustles, cutting corners, denials, sliding by, less-than-honorable intentions, and little white lies immediately came to light. The energy of this new time was alive, vibrant, intuitive bordering on psychic. It demanded the truth.

  Hurrying and rushing no longer worked as well—or at all. An anxiety-ridden pace slowed me down. I’d get a running start, then run smack into a wall. The new timing that prevailed was persistent and not necessarily my own. I had to learn to take the time I needed.

  Details became critical at this heightened, accelerated but microscopic pace. While the movement sometimes felt way too slow, this new energy whirled through me, bringing change and healing at top speed—if I took my time and revered each piece.

  Although at times I got weary of monitoring everything I ate and did, I began to pay even closer attention to what was toxic to me. We need to be at our strongest and best for the powerful creative forces that have been unleashed in the world to work.

  One month after I returned home, when my stomach began to heal, I took a trip to the redwood forest at Big Sur. It was supposed to be a quiet weekend getaway.

  That’s when I had the unsettling dream about an alchemist (one who has magical powers to
transform dross into gold) who had gotten reckless with his ax. In the alchemist’s eagerness to transform his life experiences into gold, he had mistakenly hacked away at himself. His alchemy had gone bad. Now, in the dream, he hid in bed under sheets and a quilt. In his desire to work his wizardry, he had cut himself up so badly there was almost nothing left. He felt so ashamed he wanted no one to see what he had done.

  The dream left me unnerved. Recently I had bought an ax so I could chop wood for my outdoor stove. Maybe the dream is just a nightmare, brought on by eating too late in the day, I thought. Or perhaps the dream is an admonition to be careful with my new ax.

  I tried to dismiss the dream as irrelevant, but this dream wouldn’t let me loose.

  Slowly it began to unravel. The hair stood up on my arms when I understood and got it right. After traveling halfway around the world, I finally found the missing piece.

  All along, it had been me.

  In the name of God, spiritual growth, and trying to be nice and do things right—I had given away, as Janis Joplin wails about in her song, a lot of pieces of my heart.

  I had handed over my esteem to those who hadn’t been able to love me, either because it wasn’t their destiny or desire. “Here, take it,” I had said. “You must be right. There’s something wrong with me.” I had never learned the rules, the rules for how to be loved. I had given away my power to love, to be loved, and most of all, to love myself.

  To those who had betrayed me, I had given the best pieces of my heart and soul. I had given them my hope, my ability to be fulfilled, and my compassion for myself. I had given up what I knew to be my truth. I had foregone my right to be free from lies and deception. Instead I had learned to betray myself. I had given so much and settled for so little in return. It was a deadly, spirit-killing game. These were the most precious pieces of my heart. God, it was time to get them back.

  It was time to really love myself.

  To those who said they knew better and more about what was right for my life, I had systematically relinquished my power. I had given up my ability to think and to feel and to stumble around and find my own path. I had given away so much of my power my light had almost gone out. I needed to remember that each of us is valuable and has something important to contribute to the world. And my answers were in me.

  I had given away my freedom to a lot of boxes and traps—from money, to sick love, to all the “have-to’s,” “should’s,” and “shouldn’t’s” floating around in society and embedded in my head. I had clipped my own wings and sat locked in a cage feeling bitter, powerless, and trapped. I didn’t have to stay there. I knew how to fly.

  To the dark forces of grief that had weakened my heart, I had given my ability to experience joy. I had begun to believe that life was only about loss. I thought it was supposed to hurt and be hard. What were those words I used to believe? “Everything works out for good. There is a Plan. I can really and truly trust God.”

  I had given my voice to those who would benefit by my silence. So many words were stuck in my throat I could barely speak anymore. I had forgotten how to scream in rage, shout for joy, say “Get away” or “Come close.” I had learned to expertly acquiesce. I had forgotten how important my words are. It was time to start speaking my piece.

  I had learned to overlook way too much. I had lost my stick. We each have so much emotional and spiritual power. I needed to remember what was important not just to others, but to me. It helps everyone when we tell people to stop.

  To those people who hadn’t protected me, I had given my right to feel safe. I had forgotten how to trust life and myself, to feel secure and out of harm’s way. I thought I had to feel frightened and on guard. It was time to get back my peace. I knew how to protect myself.

  To those who hadn’t wanted me—at least not the way we want to be wanted—I had given my right to be here. Maybe they hadn’t chosen me, but I could choose myself. All of us who are here now have chosen to be here for this transformational time. We are the chosen ones.

  To all my dreams that had been shattered and lost, I had given my ability to dream again. I didn’t think there was anywhere new left to go. I didn’t think there was much left that merited hope. An important part of me had died. I had forgotten how to wish. I thought dreams were stupid and just for the weak, not for people who had sense. I didn’t think there were any prizes left, at least not in this world, not for me. It was time to get back my sense of wonder and awe. I wanted to throw pennies in the fountain again and make a wish upon a star.

  Now that I knew what was missing, I wanted all these pieces back.

  We don’t have to settle for one iota less than we deserve, and our birthright is to be whole, complete, and intact. What we need to know is not how wrong we’ve been but how wonderful our souls and lives are.

  Soon after my discovery at Big Sur, Nichole telephoned me at the lodge. She had news she was excited to tell me. She couldn’t wait until I arrived home.

  “Master Huang is coming back to town,’’ she said. “It’s time for you to get your Tao.”

  I had been waiting for this for a long, long time.

  The initiation was complete. I had just passed the test.

  The final message of the trip was about to become clear: If you feel like life has become an obstacle course, don’t lose faith. If all the old doors appear to be closing, a new door will soon open wide. This one will he the gateway to a new dimension of life.

  At 3:00 P.M. on March 3, 1996, I walked through the front doors of the Venice Holy House, in Venice Beach, California. The front yard was a peaceful landscape, a Zen garden. The house smelled intoxicatingly rich with all the delicious vegetarian dishes that had been cooked and spread about in preparation for a feast.

  Nichole accompanied me. Throughout the afternoon, she stayed by my side. She had been through this before. She would be an escort, a guide, and give testimony as to my character when the ceremony began.

  At 3:30 P.M. that day, my full name including my maiden name—Melody Lynn Vaillancourt Beattie—was entered in the Book of Life. I was told this recording was a formality; it had been there all along. After carefully writing down the spelling of my name, the man taking the information, Master Huang’s assistant, told me to proceed to the back room of the Holy House.

  The ceremony was about to begin.

  First the men, then the women, were called by name to come to the front of the room. When my name was called, I tenuously took a position in the back row of the women kneeling before the altar. The woman assisting Master Huang, a Chinese woman who spoke no English, motioned for me to trade places with someone in the front. She told me to sit by the incense pot—the same position that she had directed Nichole to four months earlier.

  I stumbled through the repetitive liturgy—imitating the sounds and repeating the Chinese words the best I could. Master Huang then approached each of us, one at a time. He put his hand on my head and asked if I was ready to take this step. I said I was. He then pronounced that I had officially received my Tao.

  After spending a moment with each of us in the group, Master Huang told us that just as the candles on the altar burned brightly, so now did the light within each of us. Our karma was ended. Reincarnation would cease. We had reached and achieved the state the ancients called enlightenment.

  He told us to return to our chairs.

  Carefully, so as to be understood with his Chinese accent, Master Huang gave us the Three Treasures. He explained them carefully, tracing the Treasures to their biblical origins. Then we each took a vow of secrecy.

  The Treasures were not ours to reveal.

  Master Huang told us it was time to smile. We had now received the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven—to Paradise—in the afterlife and in this world.

  This is what he said next:

  “For thousands of years on this planet, enlightenment has been available to only a few. Throughout the history of man, there has usually been only one enlightened being on the earth at
a time. Now that the millennium is here, enlightenment will be given to the masses.

  “It’s a gift of the times. And a sign of the times.

  “Enlightenment is now available to all.

  “One at a time, across the globe, the lights will be turned on until the brilliance of this planet glows.”

  When I arrived home that day, I knew I had just taken part in an important and sacred event, but I was still uncertain about exactly what had transpired. Master Huang’s words stuck in my mind. “You don’t have to worry or ask questions. Each person will be shown what to do.”

  I went to bed early that evening. I was exhausted, but tired in a good way. As I began to drift into sleep, the Santa Anas started blowing again. The winds encircled the house like a vortex, the same as they had before this trip began. They blew so hard the windows shook, the doors rattled, and the bird began to squawk.

  The next morning, first thing, I checked outside. Those winds had taken my garbage can again.

  “That’s it,” I said. “I’m done. This is the last time this will ever take place.”

  I trudged to the hardware store and bought a new can and a long, thin chain. I tied the chain around the trash can, securing it with several tight knots, then nailed it to the mailbox. “There,” I said, pounding in the last nail. “That solves that once and for all.”

  I have never understood karma—not in the way a journalist needs to know. I’m not certain if it’s cause and effect, unfinished business, or a spiritual consequence of something we can’t remember but have nonetheless done. I’m not certain if karma is spiritual justice, the boomerang effect, or simply the way the universe brings itself into balance.

  I still don’t know, not in the way a journalist needs to know, if we live many lives or just one. I know that some people have experienced so much change it’s been like having several lifetimes in one.