Show me love, show me life
Baby show me what it’s all about
On the first day of the year in 2014, I learn, once and again, what Love means.
It started with an innocuous hike.
David and I decided we’d spend New Year’s Day exploring Point Reyes, about 30 miles north of San Francisco. In the spirit of easy-like-New-Year’s-Day, we took our time and got to the trail head bright and not-so-early at 3pm (more like 3:15). After getting lost, five steps from the parking lot (“We are such sad city people, Nikki”), we were finally on the right trail at 3:30, stoked to catch the sunset on the beach (we totally meant to get a late start for that!)
We took a 4-mile walk through the woods and onto the wet sand, marveling at the coastline and history of the land (Point Reyes is beautiful, I recommend checking it out if you have the chance).
Then came a mini crisis.
After getting back to the car at dusk, I discovered the 4 ounces of modern magic that is my phone was missing. The shiny new one I just got. Gone missing.
“Where was the last time I had it?” “When did I use it last?” “How could I have lost it?” A flurry of questions came to mind. A mixture of panic, grief, guilt, anxiety, and fear, along with the evening fog and chill, draped over me like a cape.
And guilt, especially guilt, took a strong grip of me. I felt like I had ruined a good day, and it was only the first day of the year. I felt rotten.
“What do we do now?” “What do I do now?” It was dark. The sun had set and temperature had dropped. We were ready to head home for dinner. The optimism that maybe, *just maybe* my phone was somewhere on the trail, and that if I just walked back, I would find it, was mixed with the fear of making my partner upset with me, amplified by my conflict-avoidant tendencies.
We took a deep breath, discussed our states of mind, mental and physical status, and decided to walk back “for ten minutes”, which turned out to be a full walk back to the beach.
“Come on iPhone, please be on the trail,” I silently prayed as I held his hand really tight to warm up our cold digits.
My iPhone, however, couldn’t hear my prayers. It was out of battery, maybe buried somewhere under the sand, or washed out to the Pacific Ocean, or maybe fell into someone’s hands.
“May they find it useful!” we tried to cheer ourselves with whatever altruism we could conjure up when the glimmer of hope faded away at the end of the trail.
On the walk back, we looked up at the wide open space above, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the star-filled sky, and me silently looking for some divine intervention, (because, you know, the missing iPhone *might* fall out of the sky and hit my head at any moment, right?)
“I’m so silly. I’m silly Nikki,” I lamented. “No, you’re human Nikki,” David corrected me, and I could have married him right there and then. I mean, I *am* going to marry him. But I swear I could have grabbed some random stranger on the trail and asked them to witness our vows, except that we were the only ones crazy enough to be out stumbling in the dark (with the deers and foxes).
“We can hold a funeral for your iPhone,” David squeezed my hand tight, then he proceeded to sing to the tunes of the Heart Sutra, which he’d only heard once a couple days before. I busted out laughing, and he winked at me.
We drove back through the long windy roads of Highway 1, surrounded by seashores and rocky cliffs and giant trees. They all seemed to mirror my inner mental landscape.
I realized then, that all these things I do, all the yoga classes, the meditation, the writing, the reflection, the OCD swallowing of books on human neuropsychology and behaviors and communication, everything all boils down to one fragile and fleeting moment of what I do when things don’t go my way, when I feel the pain of loss, fear, hate, sadness, guilt, anger, and disappointment.
More importantly, I realized, that another human’s love and compassion can also teach me what all those books attempt to do, in the flesh, in real time. When all I want to do is go on a self-criticism pity party, another human’s open heart and sense of humor can help me learn to have compassion for myself. And that, to me, is Love in action, full stop.
Love is when another human does a hike twice with you, in the dark, and helps you realize that you need a better device-management pocket system, but won’t let you go into a self-blaming “I’m such an incompetent idiot that I can’t even keep track of a phone” monolog.
Love is when another human helps you see that there’s plenty of room to improve, and yet still holds the space for you to feel ok, to not beat yourself up for all your flawed human ways.
Love is when someone feels your pain with you, but won’t let you dump a basket full of fear, insecurity, guilt, shame, anger, sadness, frustration, etc., in a Vitamix, blend it on high, and down it until you’re nauseous. In doing so, they show you what love looks like, and teach you how to love, starting with yourself.
Last Sunday, in a Dharma talk at Green Gulch, Jeremy Levie spoke about the Four Immeasurables. He read a poem by Dorianne Laux called Antilamentation. It seems so apt right now, so, here’s to 2014, to more compassion—for ourselves and others—, more love, and more poetry. Happy New Year to you.
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don’t regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering
any of it. Let’s stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.
And here’s an image of one of the beaches at Point Reyes, courtesy of The Seattle Times, since all the photos I took are somewhere out there in the ether. May you find a good home, iPhone.