by Andrea Adler
ALSO BY ANDREA ADLER
Books
The Science of Spiritual Marketing: Initiation into Magnetism
Creating an Abundant Practice: A Spiritual and Practical Guide for
Holistic Practitioners and Healing Centers
Audios
Moving Through Fear Gracefully
To Advertise or Not to Advertise, That Is the Question
Aligning with Our Soul’s Calling
All available at: www.HolisticPR.com
Copyright © 2012 by Andrea Adler
Published and distributed in the United States by: Hay House, Inc.: www.hayhouse.com® • Published and distributed in Australia by: Hay House Australia Pty. Ltd.: www.hayhouse.com.au • Published and distributed in the United Kingdom by: Hay House UK, Ltd.: www.hayhouse.co.uk • Published and distributed in the Republic of South Africa by: Hay House SA (Pty), Ltd.: www.hayhouse.co.za • Distributed in Canada by: Raincoast: www.raincoast.com • Published in India by: Hay House Publishers India: www.hayhouse.co.in
Cover design: Amy Rose Grigoriou • Interior design: Riann Bender
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint excerpts from the I Ching.
North American Rights:
WILHELM, RICHARD: THE I CHING, OR BOOK OF CHANGES (THIRD EDITION). Copyright © 1950 by Bollingen Foundation Inc. New material copyright © 1967 by Bollingen Foundation. Copyright © renewed 1977 by Princeton University Press. Reprinted by permission of Princeton University Press.
International Rights:
German copyright law public domain.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private use—other than for “fair use” as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews—without prior written permission of the publisher.
The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or deceased, is strictly coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Adler, Andrea.
Pushing upward : a novel / Andrea Adler. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-4019-4125-3 (tradepaper : alk. paper)
I. Title.
PS3601.D57P87 2012
813’.6—dc23
2012019241
Tradepaper ISBN: 978-1-4019-4125-3
Digital ISBN: 978-1-4019-4126-0
15 14 13 12 4 3 2 1
1st edition, September 2012
Printed in the United States of America
To Brian, for his patience
To Cynthia and Gene, for their ceaseless support
To the Siddhas, for providing the path
Sometimes the journey takes us to India,
to travel barefoot along the Himalayas,
or to Australia, to live among the Aborigines.
Sometimes the journey takes us to
Los Angeles …
The year is 1974.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Working with the I Ching
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
The beginning of all things lies still in the beyond
in the form of ideas that have yet to become real.
— I CHING
Panic had settled into the crevices of my bones. I’d become a powerless victim of circumstance. I was confused, totally stuck in this moment of complete fear and helplessness. Not knowing what to do, I closed my eyes and lay there, trying to be comfortable on the bumpy mattress whose springs had worn out long before I’d rented this apartment. Sandra, you are not allowed to swallow, exhale, or blink until you have a precise plan of action. Not a move. Holding my breath while my body remained rigid on the concave bed, I waited for the top of my head to open up so I could receive some kind of guidance—praying that insight into this dark tunnel of existence would reveal itself. Really soon.
My life had become a tragic myth. Not yet suicidal, I was in a state of severe uncertainty and knew that some kind of action had to be taken, really soon. I just wasn’t sure what. My creative soul burned to express itself in ways that my present job at Martha’s Boutique could never provide. My artistic skills yearned to be challenged in ways that no longer included the exclusive talent of selling women’s clothes. My heart burned to be reciting the words of great playwrights, keeping an audience on the edge of their seats as I delivered soliloquies from Ibsen, Chekhov, Shakespeare, Williams. But I was stuck in a nine-to-five grind, and didn’t know how to get out.
I gave myself permission to breathe, but I still couldn’t blink. So I continued to lie there, counting the brown watermarks on the ceiling, tracing the water leakage to its origin, which diverted my attention just long enough to allow a thought of genius to slip through a narrow passageway into my brain. What would I do if I were a struggling artist living in Paris? What would I do there to support myself? It took less than two minutes to come up with the perfect scenario: if I lived in Paris, I would check out the Parisian newspapers for housekeeping or governess jobs. I could have a roof over my head, a small income, and free time to paint.
I tore off the blue polyester bedcover—knowing this was at least a beginning to an action I could pursue—and tripped over my shoes on the way to the front door. I grabbed the Los Angeles Times from the doorstep … and saw the eviction notice taped to my door.
Shit! I decided to ignore it. I waited for the screen door to slam on my butt, and plopped the paper down on the old oak table. I tore through the sheets, in hot pursuit of the classifieds section. Where is it? Where is the goddamned classifieds section? Here it is. I looked eagerly up and down at each ad: HOUSEKEEPER/live out. Daytime DRIVER needed for six children. COOK for gay couple. BABYSITTER for triplets. GARDENER/COOK/DRIVER wanted for elderly couple. Give me a break! Not one job for a live-in.
I headed to the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator door, looking around for the jars of peanut butter and jelly. Smearing these ingredients onto a cracker would totally satisfy this craving I had to chew. But I was out of both. I slammed the door and returned to the paper. Again, I looked through the ads—up, down, side to side.
Nothing. I went back to the fridge, flung open the fre
ezer door this time, frantic to put something—anything—in my mouth. I began to paw around for one of those chocolate-covered ice cream bars. Just thinking of the soft ice cream and hard chocolate crust made saliva well up in anticipation. But all I could see behind the freezer-burned loaves of bread were orange-flavored bars. Whatever had possessed me to buy those? I hated orange. I tore off the wrapper of one anyway, threw it in the sink, and sucked the hell out of the orange coating. I began to pace around the tiny living room.
All of a sudden, as if a large chip from a meteor had fallen from the sky and hit my brain, I thought: Why don’t I place an ad of my own?
I stood there in complete awe of my own genius.
The orange coating had melted off its stick and was halfway down my knuckles, so I licked the remaining nasty liquid into my mouth, and probed the classifieds columns to see how the other ads were written. Then I saw it—a sign, clear as day: DISCOUNT COUPON FOR ONE PERSONL AD. The deadline was today!
Knowing that the next set of letters about to be formed would be the most important selection I’d make in life, I closed my eyes, prayed for inspiration, and spent the rest of the morning trying to edit a torrent of words down to twelve—which I finally did. And then I, Sandra Billings, placed an ad of my own:
Drama student in need of RM and BRD
in exchange for housekeeping.
Chapter 2
The superior man
refines the outward aspect of his nature.
Male responses came pouring in like a school of salmon swimming upstream. Within a week, I’d heard from a firefighter, a stockbroker, a wrestler, and a radio announcer—as well as a “carpenter by day” who dressed up as a woman at night and wanted me to go with him to cross-dressing bars. Can you imagine? I also heard from Maria, who, I think, was a lesbian. I wasn’t sure, but she said she lived on a boat in Marina del Rey. I have nothing against lesbians. It’s just that living on a boat wasn’t the kind of stability I was looking for … at this time.
After a week of returning calls, sneaking into the back room of Martha’s Boutique, where I worked as a salesgirl, and speaking to Maria and fifteen men with all kinds of arrangements and proposals, there were three I seriously considered: Mr. McKeilly, Mr. Kapoli, and Mr. Wilson. None of them sounded great. But they were the best of the calls. I would meet them all on Thursday. Martha was renovating, so I had a few days off.
Thursday morning I jumped out of bed, put on my clothes, grabbed the bran muffin that had been sitting on the kitchen counter for I don’t know how many days, and ran out of the apartment. I climbed into my cobalt-blue, on-its-last-legs Fiat, checked the rearview mirror to make sure my mascara hadn’t smeared—and sat there for a moment, knowing I must be out of my mind to even think about living with a stranger, let alone a male stranger. On the other hand, there was a certain relief. I was leaving a stale existence and entering unknown territory. If I didn’t take these chances now—step outside of my comfort zone—what kind of an actress could I expect to become? I had to take the leap—for myself and for my career.
The winding streets of Benedict Canyon were elegant and sensual. Gunning the Fiat up curving streets between wooden ultra-mods and stucco Spanish colonials, I was greeted by yards burgeoning with shrubs and tall, spiny flowers, hugging close to the sides of pink mansions. As the tires of my car caressed the smooth, banked roads, richly colored leaves swayed to and fro. I inhaled the scents and took in the sights, not wanting to miss a chimney, a tree house, a flowerpot. There were octagonal windows and lawns that seemed to go on and on, trees and bushes bearing early spring blooms of all kinds. I kept driving until I found Kurt McKeilly’s street. I eagle-eyed the house numbers looking for #24. Kurt said I’d have no problem seeing the numbers from my car. “They’re gold-plated,” he’d pronounced distinctly. “Just look to the right of the door,” he’d added in his seductive English accent.
Twenty-four. There was the house number, in gold, just like he said. I pulled the old Fiat into the massive circular driveway, turned off the engine, and sat there. Holy shit! My eyes scanned the sprawling white ranch that was really more like a mansion. A long wooden fence circled the back of the house, where two beautifully groomed saddlebreds grazed on high grass. I hope he doesn’t think I’m going to take care of these horses. I know nothing about animal care.
I was tempted to slam the oversize gold-plated knocker down on the elaborate carved door. But I had an aversion to loud noises, particularly self-inflicted ones. They always felt like sharp pins penetrating my skin. I rang the doorbell instead.
I could hear dogs barking on the other side of the door, and then footsteps. A tall, wiry man with a pointy gray mustache opened the door, one hand cradling the bowl of a pipe. The pipe was long and oddly shaped, definitely from another country. He opened the door wider. Now in full view, Kurt was tanned, good-looking, and wore khaki safari clothes. His gray hair and mustache glistened in the sun.
“You must be Sandra.” He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “Kurt McKeilly. No problem finding the house?”
“No, the directions were fine, thanks.”
“Well, then. It’s a beautiful spring day, isn’t it?” he said, standing there on the paved entryway, his hands on his hips, inhaling deeply. He could have easily passed for a successful English actor, and sounded like one. I remembered his silky voice from the phone, and the way he took long pauses after each sentence.
“Yes, it is a beautiful day,” I agreed, trying to keep the conversation moving, wondering why he was just standing there. I have no time for pauses, Mr. McKeilly. I have two more interviews after this one.
“Why don’t you come in and have a look.” He gestured me in with his pipe, which appeared not to be lit. “By the way, I did mention to you my family of animals, did I not?”
“Ah, no.”
Kurt swung open the oversize door to the flagstone entry, where two black Labrador retrievers, a Great Dane, three Samoyeds, two white cats, and six ducks greeted my feet, calves, and thighs. Taken aback by the unexpected sniffs of welcome, I proceeded through the door with tiny, mincing steps, making sure not to tread on a paw or anyone’s webbed feet.
“Down, Greta. Jennifer, you, too! Don’t squash Sammy. Sammy’s the duck with the spotted beak,” Kurt explained. “Be good, girls. This is Sandra. She’s our guest.”
Now, I’ve always been a stickler for maintaining eye contact during a conversation, but there was no way I could look this guy in the eye. I was too engaged in the sights and sounds of the panorama unfolding before me. Snuggled between lush green foliage and S-shaped ponds was a virtual village of cages containing two-and four-legged animals. Circular rock slabs became pathways leading creatures of all kinds from one habitat to another. And this was just the front hallway. I followed Kurt into the sunken living room from which his richly decorated jungle motif radiated outward, craning my neck to see how tall the treetops were. Between overgrown leaves I could make out majestic beams where two ropes hung down and formed knotted loops.
All of a sudden, two russet monkeys jumped from one rope to the other and then raced each other to the top. As I watched them run up and down the rope trying to catch each other’s tails, Kurt McKeilly’s Labradors were sniffing away. One had his nose jammed into my crotch; the other had his nose between my buttocks. I tried to push them aside, but they persisted in finding each other’s nostrils somewhere in the middle. Kurt finally noticed their innocent game.
“Shadow! Janelle! Stop this immediately!” Reprimanding the dogs, he escorted them out by their collars to another wing of the house.
I was now left alone in this African jungle.
Wait till Rachel hears where the ad led me this morning.
From the other side of the room, I heard: “Pretty girl, pretty girl, what’s it gonna be? What’s it gonna be?”
I jumped, spun around, and saw two multicolored parrots sitting tall and straight in their silver cages.
“Pretty girl, pre
tty girl, what’s it gonna be?”
“I don’t know,” I snapped back, and then wondered why I’d even replied.
“Are you ready for your tour?” Kurt asked with great enthusiasm, suddenly reappearing at my side.
“Ah-h-h-choo! I’m not sure.”
“Handkerchief?” Kurt pulled out a white cloth from his shirt pocket.
“No, thanks. I have Kleenex somewhere.” I searched my purse and pulled out a wad of tissue. “What do you do for a living?” I’d been dying to ask.
“I sell insurance to third-world countries and collect rare artifacts.” He dipped into a humidor sitting on the bookcase and began to pack tobacco into his pipe. “During my travels, I started falling in love with these magnificent creatures and began, well … collecting them.”
“How long are you away when you go?”
“Up to three months.”
“Ah-h-h-choo! Look, Mister, ahhh, Kurt. I should tell you from the get-go, I am highly allergic to animal hair.” I blew my nose again, stuffed the tissue inside my purse, and headed toward the door. “I could easily get an asthma attack here. Have you ever seen anyone experience an asthma attack? It’s not pretty. Your lungs flare up. You can’t breathe.” I reached for the door handle, and turned the knob. “What if you’re out of town and I need to go to the hospital—who’d look after the animals?” I reached out my hand to shake his. “I know you’ll find the right person.” It’s just not me, I said under my breath.
I didn’t wait for a response. I opened the door, walked quickly to my car, jumped in, and left skid marks on my way out of Kurt’s driveway. Then I proceeded to West L.A. at no less than thirty miles over the speed limit. It wasn’t a total lie. I did have asthma … when I was younger. It just never escalated like I’d described it.
One down, two to go! As I looked at my watch, my stomach felt queasy. I didn’t know if I was sick because of the last interview or worried about the next one. Whichever it was, I had to ignore these feelings and keep moving. I didn’t want to be late to meet Saul.