Friday Afternoon

The thing about it is, no matter what bullshit ideas or agenda he might have going into it, he may have finally learned that planning was a waste of time. One can [and should] set intentions and carefully choose environment. One can secure a loving and thoughtful guide. These are important considerations. But the idea that one can direct what happens is best abandoned.  It’s nonsensical fighting, a waste of time. The experience itself just unfolds. In its own time. At its own pace. 

He found the experience profound and phenomenal on several levels. Even if he put aside the medicinally-infused spectacle of technicolor carousels with glittering swings and flying elephants, this third experience, which he is not quite yet twenty-four hours distant from, was far less dark than prior experiences. Perhaps the result of the particular molecular choice this time, or perhaps he has developed an increasing comfortability and trust that it is safe to be brought back to himself and into the laughter.  He needn’t be afraid.

As with prior experiences, much of it is vague. Perhaps later there will be more recall. Certainly, over time, more integration. Yet, there are some acute memories, perhaps real or imagined.  This time, as intensity took root, there was a conviction about the process that solidified quite clearly for him. It’s a gift. Plain, simple. The presence of his teacher and a choice to allow someone to experience the unhinged, uncovered and unguarded interior in a way he can’t quite himself may be an affirmative act of surrender, but it is also both a gift and a privilege.

And about the time that thought materialized, he was off.

The parents came. They always do.

His sweet mother. He was the youngest of four, the afterthought child, who as an infant and toddler, soaked up much alone time with her as the others were off to school. He was grateful to experience such time at the beginning of his life as well as at the end of hers. There was always music. There was always music in the house. “Thank you, my sweet mother. For your love and for the music.”

Dad. As things kicked in, there was the sound of hedge trimmers in a neighbor’s yard. It may have actually been a skill saw, but in his mind, he heard a sound of his father. The shroud of love and care simply expressed through random chores. “I miss my sweet father.”

He cannot recall if he was directed away from this line of thinking, or simply chose not to linger there this time around. He felt joy to be with someone who truly understands the auditory realm as a lifeforce of its own, though he recalls expressing a desire for music that was fun and adventuresome, not dark and morose. 

Suddenly some bizarre playful version of Vivaldi. Certainly not dark or morose.

Fears swirled about his own inept parenting as they have on prior experiences. This time it seemed easier to conclude, “I’ve freely given love in my own way and measure.  I cannot live, I will not live to the standard of someone else.”  He also observed that, “contemplating regret is a waste of time.”

This time around, it seemed easier to let go on his own and move from one thought to the next.

Was he frightened? He remembers checking in from time to time to confirm his teacher was still there but not in the same neurotic way as last time. This time he was genuinely motivated out of concern for his own needs and less concerned about his teacher’s comfort level.  He remembers his teacher’s hand on his chest.  He felt one with the world, floating in a stream, carried by the current. Safe. But there was also fear. He recalls thinking that he would like to learn to place his own hand there and experience such unity.  At some level he trusts he will be able to do this.

Like a dog with a bone, he kept returning to the core belief that he is defective, damaged, unworthy. Somewhere, a long time ago, someone told him some bullshit about himself. He listened, internalized and he has been seeking external validation to dispel (or confirm) these truths ever since.

He is invited to stop seeking. But how? Could it be that simple? He attempts to engage the teacher in dialogue and was instructed to cease saying, “You make it look so easy,” or any tangential derivative of that sentiment.  His teacher points out he is engaging in a debate that has no meaning. A dialogue that goes nowhere. Can you stop debating and see what a good time we are having? Can you stop searching long enough so we can do something else?  If you are debating constantly you cannot experience what is here. If you are constantly seeking how to laugh and love, you become an expert at searching and cannot experience laughter or love.

For a moment, he stops.

He sees love emanating from his teacher like a palpable force. While he relishes the reassurance that he is good, that he is loving and lovable, intellectually he understands that such reassurance is unnecessary. The love is simply something that is genuine. It just is.  At the same time, he feels love is pretty fucking awesome.

In the moment he stops, there is suddenly so much laughter. So much laughter. The laughter of two men on a Friday afternoon. Grapes on acid. Squoogy woogie boogie boo. So much playfulness.  He could not help but give in. A small moment. Never before. Never again. Treasured. Experiential. Not Conceptual.

He is confused by this part, he longs to return to debate. It seems too simple. His teacher refuses to engage and suggests they practice making snoring noises.

He knows this concept is less clear than the physical manifestation of stance that was brought to him on the last trip. But he knows somewhere in this most confusing part is the crux of the pattern he must recognize and what his teacher will help him recognize, process and integrate.                           

Can he stop seeking?

Can he simply experience ‘new’ and stop trying to establish a plan to navigate a place where he has never been?

Can he orient himself to initiate from that which is within (bring from and give of self) as opposed to operating with every single movement and thought as a measured response (and seeking validation, feeling, safety) to that which is around him?

Can he continue to stop, laugh (and forgive) his own ridiculousness, because, it sure feels lovely and it certainly seems like time for more of that kind of fun. We recognize, we practice our destination.

The aftermath was exquisite. As he started to return to his surroundings, his teacher played the original version of Elton John’s Your Song. Such a prescient choice.  How did he possibly know? A full circle and connection to his past, but as if he was hearing it for the first time.

Later as he spent several hours in the yard, listening to music. It was lovely.

As he looked around the yard, he realized he was experiencing things in a way he hadn’t before and wouldn’t again. The neighbors’ tree, lush and blooming, filling the yard with fragrance. The wind kicking up, rain spitting at him, reminiscent of a light Maui windstorm.  He stared back at the house which reminds him so much of Lawrence Street, through the window he could almost see Burt at the Steinway playing Elton.

There were a few moments where it all seemed too intense and he craved escape. Weed. Old pattern, proven not to be useful. Fortunately, his teacher suggested he just let things be and draw to a close.

The following day seemed filled with confusion, shifting moods, and some weariness. He accepts this as part of the process. He knows the appreciation of beauty in everything he saw and noticed for the first time as he came back will remain later. It’s not the same later, but those moments of the day are experienced and in his mind, they are with him never to be lost.