Lessons from the streetcar...

For a mere $99.75 you can get season's tickets (for a month) to Life Theatre. No, not the kind with good lighting, cushy seats and pretentious purveyors of probosity. I am talking about All the World's Indeed a Stage kind of thing, or This is Your Life Theatre. 'Cause if you really pay attention, you will have your own dramas played out in front of your very eyes. Hey! Now I am not being arrogant, I am sure the Strategic Chess Game of Life is working more than one angle at any given time and there are more people learning lessons than just me, but I swear to you if you look, you will see what I am talking about.

Yesterday, I was heavily preoccupied with writing in my journal when I couldn't help but notice a pervasive, pleased ta meet ya, stench wafting from some poor soul who had just got on the streetcar. Now, you have to know that years of smoking in the past and a few allergies have pretty much dwarfed my ability to smell and sometimes...sometimes I am thankful. But yesterday morning, it wasn't helping me. Nope. And I could only imagine how bad it was for others, with a full-fledged sense of smell, who had just gotten on the car. I opened the window a bit wider and tried to lean into it while resuming writing.

My attempts at putting my mental machinations on paper were once again abruptly interrupted, this time, by the driver. "My God, Sir! You stink! Get off the streetcar!" He opened the door and several people got out, but not Smelly Man. I strained my neck to get a glimpse of this character. He was looking a bit like Juan Valdez and every bit as proud...although the beans he had been picking were likely not of the same genre as Juan's. At all. Seriously. I mean it.

Smelly Man refused to budge, saying he had paid his fare and was going to call the police. The streetcar driver encouraged him to do so and made his own call to Dispatch to have the man physically removed from the car. "Sir! I do feel for the fact that you are homeless, but you really stink! You need to have a shower, Man! Get off the car. You are emptying out the car, you smell so bad! You are holding everyone else up!" At this time, other people started joining into the fray and calling the man down for his aura and telling him to get off and get a shower.

The surreal nature of this unfolding of humanity struck me as rather odd. Like in a dream, I knew I really should say something in his defense, but it wouldn't come out of my mouth. This man was being pilloried and humiliated by his fellow man and woman who could not see that he was proud and human and had feelings. I started wondering to myself why I had found myself in the middle of this absurd exchange. Like I knew it had meaning for me, this twisted trip down the Rabbit Hole. Like I knew it was being played out for me. See above note on the Chess Game.

In the midst of all the loud dismissals of this man finally came the quiet voice of a woman sitting by herself. She said, "Is this really necessary? He doesn't smell that bad now. Is there some kind of rule that says you have to throw someone off the streetcar if they smell? Because if there is a rule, then I can understand, but otherwise, can we just get going? We've been here, holding up traffic for 20 minutes. Can we just go?"

I finally found my voice and said to the driver, "Really, this is quite inhumane." Some of the few people who were left nodded and mumbled under their collective breath. But the driver was too affronted by the sensual onslaught and would not be effected. He decided to divert the car and kicked all of us off.

I got onto another streetcar and sat down, feeling like I had really done something wrong. The Old Me would never have sat silently by while someone was humiliated. The Old Me wouldn't have waited for someone else to say something first. The Old Me would have been front and centre on her soapbox trying to get her point across. Why didn't I speak up?

A co-worker and friend jumped on the same car as me, later down the line, and I shared with her the story of that exchange and another angry, unnecessary, disrespectful exchange on the current car I was on...the details of which don't matter that much to the story. She thoughtfully told me she figured I attracted it because I was angry myself. I couldn't argue that because I had woken up in a perimenopausal crab ass mood that only those who have been through it can understand. I had thought I was doing a pretty good job of keeping it at bay, but then the Universe is never fooled is it? So, "all right," I thought, "I could have attracted the anger to me, okay, I get that." But I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more.

I got to work to meet my client. I need to add a necessary aside, here, so bear with me. I work with people with acquired brain injuries helping them to attain some semblance of independence. When I started in this job in February I was under the impression that that meant I was to be the teacher and they were to be the students. I have since figured out how laughably arrogant and completely reversed that is. I am the humbled student, make no mistake.

So, I go to meet someone I will lovingly refer to as The Philosopher. The Philosopher is brilliant. He told me that the area of his brain that was injured has gotten out of the way of the rest of his brain and his is now quite psychic. He has blown me away several times in proving that to be sharply accurate. I thought I would bounce the story off him , for his input. He didn't hesitate. He told me the scene on the streetcar had been played out for me and that I watched other people treat a homeless man with exactly the same derision I treat myself and my own homelessness. I sat there with my eyebrows raised. I had never told him how I feel about my current living situation and how I strongly feel the need to have my own place...my own roots. I feel like one of those people I used to watch as a reporter, in court, who were described as being of no fixed address.

He told me that my pilgrimage to the Camino would also be playing out my homeless issues. And that I am also homeless in my own skin. My own energy. I am lost between masculine and feminine energy and looking for somewhere black and white to light. I can't find the bridge. He told me I need to get in touch with my feminine side...as in the creative, receptive side of myself. It's my blocked creativity that is causing me to be completely detached from myself. I sat there with my jaw hanging down. There might have even been drool escaping from one corner of my mouth. I'm not sure of that, but there COULD HAVE BEEN! My homeless nature smells bad to me, he says. I need to accept where I am at as an important part of my journey, he says. The man blows me away, I says.

I am excited about these insights...I don't have all the answers and today I was finding myself feeling frustrated at myself for not having more of them. For not knowing how to pull myself out of this headspace and move on. For not knowing how to release the homeless waif.

So, I was sitting on the streetcar today wondering what the hell I need to do...what IS IT I need to realize?!!! I want to be in a place of joy, not hair pulling, lesson learning transition, which I have been in so long I smell bad! ;)

This woman gets on the streetcar and the driver asks her, "How are you, today?" She looks back at him and says, "Fantastic!" I immediately look up as I want to witness someone who is fantastic and she adds: "Well, I am also grumpy as I don't identify with my shoes anymore. I used to identify with my shoes, but now with every step, I am reminded I no longer identify with my shoes."

I laughed out loud.

Ahhhhhh....lessons from the streetcar!

Other's thoughts...

The person who travels to a sacred site is not the same person when they return home. They have been awakened to a greater respect for the planet, accelerating a beautiful unity and harmony between all living people, cultures, and religions. The ancient one who created these sites help us remember that this is the most important truth there is.
~ Aluna Joy Yaxkin

"A pilgrimage is not unlike participating in ritual or ceremony: we step outside of time, between the worlds, where the rules are different and anything can happen. In sacred space, we are receptive to the voices and presence of the Goddess in a way that we are not in our mundane surroundings. We have an expectation of experiencing that deep pleasure we call joy. Away from home, away from daily responsibilities.... opens up enormous space for the Divine to enter." Joanna Powell Colbert -- Sage Woman

"A pilgrimage is an embodied prayer."--Mara Freedman

Pilgrimage is an art which brings peace to the soul.
Pilgrims are bearers of love, which they carry to special places of the Earth. By holding a joyful consciousness of this love and of the beauty of these places, pilgrims encourage the natural energies of the earth to flow harmoniously. Pilgrims are guided by a wisdom based on both intuition and an understanding of the energy routes and sacred places of power in the world. The gifts of love, hope and joy are inestimable. They have the power to be a friend with the earth, with the divine and with all levels of life. --Peter Dawkins

Mid-Life Crisis?

What exactly is "Mid-Life Crisis?" 'Cause I thought I went through it at age 30. At age 30 I was in journalism school and wondering if I had screwed-up somehow? I was 30, in school, and I really didn't own much Stuff. Shouldn't I have owned more Stuff? And how much had I really accomplished in my life to that point? I was back in school, for pity's sake! And where, exactly was I going with my life? I thought I should have had more answers.

Fast forward to age 44 and I am looking back on the 30 year old and I am thinking, "Wow! I really had it together then!" I had more Stuff than I do now; I had an excitement for and a belief in the future. I had roots, family and friends, a great job and a partner of many years. I believed in myself, my skills, my abilities and that there were great things about me. I wanted to save the world by being Reporter Extraordinaire! I believed it was possible. I believed I could do anything I set my mind to.

It wasn't a cataclysmic change for me...it was slow and degrading like a water leak in your roof that eventually becomes a torrent of wet activity that invades your whole house. One day I just looked up and thought, "Who the fuck am I?" I no longer write for a living...something I took for granted I would always do. I don't even know where to start on things written anymore. I work at a job, where I look at myself in the mirror on days like today and ask, "What the hell are you doing here and how the hell did you get here?"

I look around at how I live. A beautiful friend rescued me from the airport after yet another failed relationship and gave me a place to stay. But this isn't my home. I sleep in a donated bed, I didn't buy, with an orange comforter given to me by another ghost in my life. I am surrounded by boxes of my books I have carted across the country, from relationship to relationship and someone else's home after someone else's home. I look at the clothes in my closet and they are evidence of my current inability to decide who I am. They are as much in transition as am I.

I have a sign on my wall that I etched out in black felt pen. It says, "Lost Waif Free Zone." I have fleeting days when I actually believe that. But then I remember I am about to embark on the biggest Lost Waif Challenge I have ever taken on. I am doing the Camino de Santiago and I will be a waif dependent on the kindness of strangers. I hope to God it is my last foray into Waifyness.

I want a home. Mine. I want Stuff. I don't need gobs and gobs of Stuff. The antiques of pretentiousness and the currency of the Matrix don't appeal to me. Just something comfortable and visually pleasing would be nice. I want a home to call my own, that no one but the undertaker can take from me if things don't work out.

I want friends I can rely on who know the meaning and value of loyalty. I always had many and probably took that for granted. I don't take that for granted anymore.

I want to know where I am going with my life. I want to know it without doubt or second guessing. I want to wake up in the morning, excited about some dream I have...some million dollar idea. I want to feel creative again, instead of remembering, with nostalgia, how I used to have a new idea for a play or a story, everyday.

I want to be excited about work...I want to feel like I am doing something of value, of worth. I want to be appreciated for my skills and who I am as a person.

I want to believe in myself again. Is this my real Mid-Life Crisis? I sure the hell hope this is the last time I have to ask that. I knew it all once. I know very little anymore. Does having the answers come full circle? Can somebody please fill me in? I missed the memo on this.