I’m Through Apologizing

Posted on January 16, 2015 by Baja Rock Pat

All my life, I never thought I was “enough”–not good enough, pretty enough, smart enough, tough enough, cool enough, whatever-the-latest-something-is enough. And because of that, I always found myself apologizing. I think a lot of us do that–apologize incessantly. I know I did it (and still do) because, God forbid, I disobey the rules or either accidentally or on purpose, (gasp) break the rules!

As some of you know, I wrote a memoir called “Dance of the Electric Hummingbird,” and in it, I bared my soul. It was perhaps one of the toughest things I’ve ever done–reveal to complete strangers personal details about my life, what I think, how I feel, and what I’ve done. Whenever one publishes something for the public, one opens one’s self to ridicule and judgment, and I don’t know about you, but the last thing I needed was someone else judging me when I already did a fine job of it on myself.

Before my book came out, my publisher had a hard time classifying which category it fell into. Was it best presented as New Age? Self Help? Spirituality? Music? Memoir?

All of these. Because, you see, I do not fit into any one category. (And neither do you.) I was under the impression that most spiritual books were written by authors who were so clean and nice that sugar could melt in their mouths. Well, that’s not me. I cuss sometimes. I have tattoos. I have my share of bad days where no matter what I do, nothing seems to go right.

In other words, I am human.

I thought that I should have to be like those other authors who were perfect all the time—and that I should never, ever have a bad day, and if I did, I surely would never let the public know about it. I wrote a book and got it published; that was a big accomplishment and people looked up to me. I had to set a good example; I had to put forth a positive image all the time and always do the right thing. Bullshit! That takes too much energy; and the older I get, the more I value having energy because tomorrow something mental or physical might hurt too much to warrant my even getting out of bed!

I have since learned to accept and embrace who I am—imperfectly perfect, or perfectly imperfect, however you want to look at it. And I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to be pure and saintly and positive 100% of the time to be a spiritual person, or to find self-realization or self-fulfillment or to make a positive contribution to the world. You are already perfect just the way you are. Uh huh, I said it.

Since I’ve already shared so much about myself, I figured why not share some more? Because by sharing parts of ourselves with the world, it lets others know that they are not alone and that, right there, is empowering. And since it’s my goal to help others discover their personal paths to self-realization, all I can do is point the way to “The Way,” then it’s up to them to find their own truths.

There’s a Zen saying that goes:

The way to enlightenment is like a finger pointing at the moon. If you focus on the finger, you won’t see the moon.

So here goes. I’m done apologizing:

for going out in public wearing sandals without painting my toenails (“Suck it, Trebek!”)

for wearing jeans and T-shirts and sometimes too-short shorts

for having tattoos and piercings

for no longer subscribing to all the tenets of the religion in which I was raised and for picking and choosing bits and pieces of other religions and philosophies to put together my personal spiritual belief system.

for saying “bad” words and laughing at dirty jokes

for not buying into your political stance or religion—and by the way—I don’t judge you; you’re entitled to your own opinion, just as I am

for believing that dreams really do come true

for being naive and unworldly sometimes

for being open-minded to a fault sometimes

for my shoes not matching my purse (or sometimes not even matching each other! Yeah, it’s happened.)

for practicing (and loving) the “unladylike” martial art of taekwondo

for liking kim-chee, merlot, good tequila, strong coffee, any sort of potatoes and milk chocolate (white chocolate is NOT chocolate in my opinion!)

for believing that gays and lesbians deserve the same rights as everyone else

for believing that women should be allowed to be priests and that priests should be allowed to marry and have families

for not wanting to eat or drink from anything made of plastic

for believing that there are good people and not-so-good people of every race, color and creed

for believing in magic and miracles

for playing my music too loud

for having a special place in my heart for bikers (the kind who ride motorcycles, have tattoos, and wear leather and do-rags)

for not always wearing the right clothes for the right occasion, i.e. overdressed for a casual event or underdressed for a special event—clothes just aren’t that important to me

for loving, loving, LOVING heavy metal music (the raunchier the better) and rock, hip hop, blues, and classical

for NOT loving the music of Celine Dion

for dancing or singing when I feel like it—so what if I’m no good? Don’t watch!

for focusing all my love on my family and friends—they come first

for your misunderstanding of what I said

for not needing a gazillion dollars to make me happy

for loving the smell, the feel, the sounds, and the sight of everything having to do with horses

for celebrating Christmas, Halloween, Easter and the Fourth of July

for abhorring sitcoms wherein is piped that insipid canned laughter. Ugh!

for believing in God, angels, saints, spirits and ghosts, and my Higher Self

for not presenting home-cooked meals in an artful manner—as long as it tastes good, who cares if it’s on a pretty plate? Serve yourself out of the saucepan. There’s less cleanup that way

or if you stay overnight at my house, your towels and bedding may not be color-coordinated, but I’ll give you the best I’ve got and they will be fresh and clean and super-comfortable!

for being nostalgic and romantic

for being able to relate to Eastern philosophies so much more than to most Western philosophies

for my house being messy if you drop over unexpectedly—I have a little plaque in my kitchen that reads “I cleaned my house yesterday. Wish you could have seen it!”

for spending too much time writing

for loving philosophy and deep conversations

for needing to feel appreciated

for spending countless hours just watching my babies sleep when they were newborns

for loving babies of any kind—human, canine, feline, equine, you name it

for thinking too much—mulling things over and over and over in my mind until I make myself nauseous (and believe me, that can take a looooooong time)

for being overly sensitive

for believing that people are innately good

for getting older

for wearing clothes that are “too young” for me. I love distressed jeans.

for enjoying reading about sex, writing about sex, talking about sex and engaging in sex

for hugging you full on, and with my entire being. It’s not sexual—I really do love you that much.

for telling you how good-looking, smart, or wonderful you are. It’s not a ploy; I sincerely mean it.

for believing that no one has the right to hurt another person or animal

for believing in the power of prayer

for using meditation and other methods of tapping into my mind and spirit

for believing that elderly people deserve respect

for knowing that “you” do not end with the death of your physical body

for being patriotic and loving my country

for believing that God is both male and female at the same time

for mourning my dear parents who have passed on

for teaching my kids to have manners

for having respect for those in my life, not just because they’re in a position of authority or because they’re famous, but because in my opinion, they earned it

for believing that every woman has the right to choose what happens to her body

for being needy for no apparent reason

for being kinky for no apparent reason

for being silly for no apparent reason

for needing to hear you say that you love me

for spending too much money on my kids and grandkids and spoiling them rotten. Isn’t that what kids and grandkids are for?

for drinking too much tequila sometimes (although not for a long time)

for loving you first, before I even know you, and giving you the benefit of the doubt until I am convinced that you don’t deserve it (and it takes a LOT for me to determine that you don’t deserve it)

for loving you too much. I don’t believe there is such a thing as loving too much

for trying to please/feed/clothe/house/protect you too much

for not wanting to be in the company of those who put others down

for not being phony. Yeah, I’d like breast implants, a butt lift, botox and a tummy tuck, but I’ll deal with what I’ve got. (However, I might be able to be persuaded on a few of those things…)

for not laughing at your racial jokes

for wearing my heart on my sleeve

for not holding down a regular 9 to 5 job—I’m a writer

for being a stay-at-home mom when my kids were growing up

for being friends with people you don’t approve of

for asking too many questions

for buying too many books (There’s no such thing as “too many” books.)

for anything I’ve said here that may seem contradictory

for anything I’ve said here that may offend you

Now—your turn. It’s a new year. What are you through apologizing for?

A Roger Ebert Story and an Excerpt from “Dance of the Electric Hummingbird”

Posted on September 25, 2011 by Baja Rock Pat

March 4, 2010

One of my readers sent this to me recently and I wanted to share it with you, along with my reply to her. (She has given me her approval.) In her email, (I’m paraphrasing here) she told me that film critic Roger Ebert had recently appeared on the Oprah Show. For more than eight years, he’d been battling thyroid cancer that eventually spread to his salivary gland and jaw. Because of this, most of his lower jaw had been removed and it left him unable to speak or eat. He uses a computer into which he types what he wants to say and it replays the words.

Ebert wrote in his journal that the purpose of our lives is to make the lives of others a little happier and to make ourselves happier. Anything contrary to that is a travesty because unhappiness is the breeding ground for crime. He said that he didn’t always know this, but was glad that he has lived long enough to realize it.

When asked about his appearance, he replied that nobody is perfect and that we have to accept who we are and keep on living.

My reply to her email:

I hope most of us don’t have to go through what he did to realize that what he says is true. Unfortunately all we have is our words to help us convince others of the things we know will improve their lives. Here’s an excerpt for you from my book. The setting takes place in a coffee shop, where I’m talking to a famous poet. In this scene she has just finished reading some of my work.

Following is an excerpt from DANCE OF THE ELECTRIC HUMMINGBIRD. It’s from Chapter 28 — Beyond the Holes of Words:

(9-25-11: This chapter has been edited out of the manuscript. Sorry for any inconvenience!)

“What exactly are you trying to say here?” She points to a line in my poem with her pen.

I fumble a bit, unsure of how to respond because I’ve sugarcoated my meaning. I take a sip of my mocha latte to stall. It tastes even better than before. I take another. Then I look around the small room—the walls are painted light pink and there are dark, wooden shelves displaying coffee products for sale. Three other customers sit in overstuffed chairs arranged facing one another near the windows. The entire atmosphere is one of warmth, relaxation, and trust. It seems to say, “Go ahead…”

I’m trying not to focus on the fact that Victoria is the perfect image of a teacher, which she is, after all, because in my mind, teachers had always been harbingers of doom. Of course, this is my own silly notion left over from my Catholic school days—Victoria is not dressed in a black and white nun’s habit. She’s wearing a floral print button-down blouse, impeccably ironed, and white pants, her grey hair cut short and neatly styled. Why do I do this to myself?

“Do you mean ‘vagina’?” Her soft-spoken manner seems contradictory to such frankness.

“Yes.” I’m quite caught off-guard.

“Then say ‘vagina.’” She crosses out what I’ve written and scribbles the word “vagina” with her red pen.

I take another sip of my latte, swallowing hard in an attempt to disguise the little smile creeping over my face.

She and I had become friends when I’d signed up for the Writing through Loss grief support group after my parents died. Over the years, I had attended several of her writing workshops and poetry readings, hoping to absorb as much knowledge from her as I could. And now she was the person in charge of the class I’d enrolled in.

During one of the sessions, as the group of mourners sat writing in our chairs, she quietly approached me.

“I really love your writing. I was wondering if you’d be interested in working with me on your poetry.”

“I’d be honored!” I was a little embarrassed because I wasn’t used to compliments like this. But I sorely needed help and direction with my writing, and professional advice. I had so much inside of me that I wanted to say and I wanted it to come out as art so others could relate, but sometimes I didn’t know quite how to say it. I didn’t want to offend anyone.

And now, sitting across from her, I realize that she’s not judging me. She’s treating me with respect for what it is I need to say as an artist. What ridiculous notion had convinced me that she would immediately reject me based on one word? I feel my body relax and I gain even more respect for her—this tiny woman with a big soul.

But I learned from an early age to care what others thought of me, which stemmed from my worrying about what God thought of me. Growing up I learned how not to bring attention to myself. I was always on the lookout for what others expected of me and strove to live up to their expectations. And the things the girls at school said about me hurt me deeply, so I knew that words had a lot of power. Prepubescent girls can be horribly cruel, but I never fought back; I couldn’t conceive of hurting anyone else on purpose, even if they’d hurt me first. It went completely against my nature.

So the words thing was obviously deeply ingrained in me. I was concerned that people would form the wrong opinion of me for that reason.

Thoreau said, “Say what you have to say, not what you ought.” And here is the poet telling me pretty much the same thing.

Art is supposed to incite raw emotion.

So when it comes to writing this book, a much bigger project than writing one poem, trying to explain all this is very much like trying to explain Zen: no matter which words I choose, the only way another can truly know how it feels is by personal experience. Nevertheless, my soul screams that I have to try. I have to tell this story. It’s a quagmire I just know I can conquer if not with words, then through some sort of osmosis that whoever is meant to hear and understand, will. And yet, my ferryboat is built of words.

D. T. Suzuki writes:

Cannot Zen be so explained that a master can lead all his pupils to enlightenment through explanation? Is satori something that is not at all capable of intellectual analysis? Yes, it is an experience which no amount of explanation or argument can make communicable to others unless the latter themselves had it previously … For a satori turned into a concept ceases to be itself … Therefore, all that we can do in Zen in the way of instruction is to indicate, or to suggest, or to show the way so that one’s attention may be directed towards the goal. As to attaining the goal and taking hold of the thing itself, this must be done by one’s own hands, for nobody else can do it for one…

I can’t wrap its message into a neat little package others can take with them like a piece of chewing gum that releases some great philosophical truth when you bite into it. If I could, believe me, I would.

END OF EXCERPT.

The Best Definition of Heaven and Hell

Posted on July 16, 2011 by Baja Rock Pat

February 24, 2011

I grew up in an era when the Mass was all in Latin and as a Catholic school student, I had to go to church every morning before class. I remember sitting in pews crammed with children like me, all wearing our coats because it was Wisconsin and cold outside, our bookbags and metal lunch pails taking up what little room there was on the floor in front of us behind the kneelers and on the wooden pews where we were supposed to sit. It was kind of like a contest to see who would pass out first—I bet today it’ll be that third-grader, little Johnny B. in Sister Agatha’s class…

All the while, men in robes at the foot of the altar chanted in Latin and waved incense that made my nose sting and my stomach churn. I didn’t understand it, but that’s the way it was, so I didn’t question it. Then afterward, back in our classroom, our teacher, Sister Bernadette, would tell us about how we were supposed to fear the Lord and if we didn’t spend our whole lives repenting, we would go to hell when we died.

Okay, this is my interpretation. Organized religion satisfies the spiritual needs of a lot of people and I think that’s great. It just didn’t work for me. I saw too much hypocrisy there and too many double standards, like why couldn’t women be priests? And how could a priest counsel people on marriage if he wasn’t allowed to marry?

And how could I ever be really happy since, being born a sinner, I was supposed to spend my whole life pleasing God, who, because I was a sinner, I wasn’t humanly capable of pleasing in the first place? But I was obligated to try anyway. And if God were in a particularly agreeable mood the day I died, He might consider letting me into heaven if I was lucky and if I’d been good. But there were no guarantees. All this did was make me feel small and inadequate.

The more I thought about it, the more I decided that gnashing my teeth and burning in hell didn’t sound like my idea of a good time. On the other hand, cloud-squatting didn’t sound too interesting either. I mean, just how many clouds can one count and how many songs can one learn to play on the harp before one gets bored, even if one has an inclination to these types of activities, which I don’t? Eternity is a long time!

I also don’t think God is vengeful. I don’t think God can be anything but love. And I don’t think God wants to be feared because fear is the opposite of love.

The best definition of heaven and hell that I’ve ever heard, comes from an ancient Zen story. It goes something like this:

“Is there such a thing as heaven and hell?” a student once asked his teacher.

“Oh yes!” replied the teacher.

Surprised at this response, the student asked his teacher to explain.

“And how are you feeling right now, at this moment?” the teacher asked.

The sun was shining, the day was warm, the student had just finished a nice breakfast and was basically in good health.

Confused, the student replied, “Fine, why?”

“That is heaven,” the teacher told him. Then without missing a beat, the teacher promptly picked up his foot and stomped it down as hard as he could upon the student’s bare foot, causing the student to cry out in excruciating pain. “And that, my dear student, is hell,” said the teacher.

Like all Zen stories, this story is open to one’s interpretation. To me, it means that heaven and hell are here and now, not some place we go when we die. It also means that heaven and hell, like all things, are subject to each person’s perception and may mean something different to you than it does to me.

At first glance, my Catholic background would have told me that if there’s no “place” called heaven, and no reward for living a good life, that makes me feel kind of empty and that my life has no meaning. But the more I think about it, the more I see it’s quite the opposite. I believe in reincarnation. I believe in God. I believe in living my life right now, to the best of my ability to be a good person. And I believe that God has given us gifts and when we discover them and implement them, we become a light unto others. These things bring me to God and that, to me, is what it’s all about.