me: Yeah, except nine out often times you never find out what the reason was.
judy: And you’d get upset about that, too.
me: Of course I did! I was promised a lesson!
judy: If you were more in touch with the universe, maybe you would have figured it out.
me: Here we go.
judy: You know what would have made you happier? Getting in touch with your spiritual side.
me: I tried. Didn’t work.
judy: Maybe what you tried didn’t work. But you can’t just quit because one of seventeen billion avenues isn’t for you. You just need to keep trying until you find one that feels like the right path. Religion and spirituality for you were just like Brownies or dance or gymnastics.
me: Things my mother forced me to do instead of letting me take naps and watch soap operas like other normal four-year-olds?
judy: I never should have let you quit any of those things.
me: Well, I can absolutely see how gymnastics would have helped me to become a better person, what with my secret life as a superhero. But how could finding my spiritual side help?
judy: Less time stewing and more time being happy.
me: Maybe I could refill that Phenobarbital prescription.…
judy: Look at your brother! He’s all about the Universe these days and can’t stop making money. Ever since he put it out to the Universe. He even got a $1.84 credit from McDonald’s. Can you believe that? They overcharged him for something and gave him the credit without him even having to ask for it.
me: If the Universe is giving out $1.84 credits then it’s going to take a while for me to get those end tables.
judy: And he won $30 on a lottery ticket.
me: Since when does he buy lottery tickets?
judy: He doesn’t. He found that ticket.
me: Let me guess. On a homeless person?
judy: See? That’s your problem. You’re too cynical to let the good stuff in. You keep up that negative attitude and you’ll reap negativity twofold.
me: Come on! There’s a difference between being cynical and downright delusional. You’re telling me that if I eat a pan of brownies for dinner every night for a week, all the while telling myself how thin I am, I’d actually lose weight?
judy: You try it and let me know.
me: What about manifesting my own destiny? Purveying my own happiness? Didn’t you always tell me not to rely on anyone else to give me what I want?
judy: The universe isn’t just anyone.
me: What would Deepak say?
judy: To listen to your mother.
I was six years old when I had my first existential crisis. In my mind, God was a cowboy. I don’t know why I saw him this way as I didn’t know any cowboys, didn’t grow up on a farm, and, other than the clothing worn by my Western Barbie, I wasn’t particularly fond of big hats and pointy boots. Yet the God I believed in was a giant, bandana-wearing wrangler in a ten-gallon hat. I remember lying in the grass in the backyard and looking up at the clouds.
“God,” I said. “Show me your cowboy boot.”
Yes, even six-year-olds need proof of existence. And to be fair, I wasn’t asking for miracles. I just wanted to see the tip of his boot or a shiny spur poke through the gauzy whiteness of the clouds.
I waited, maybe an hour. Maybe ten minutes. To a six-year-old it felt like a lifetime willing that giant in brown leather to wink down at me. But alas, not so much as a sunbeam poked through the clouds. I was highly disappointed. I mean, I knew God was busy and all, but I was always told he had time enough for all of us. No doubt there were people asking him to cure cancers or snuff out house fires or find loved ones who were lost at sea. As far as I was concerned, my request was an easy one.
“Well, I guess you don’t really exist,” I sighed. Then I called Woofie, my imaginary German shepherd over and went inside for a Ring Ding.
“What’s the matter?” Judy asked when she came into the kitchen and saw me face down in plastic wrap and white cream.
Yes, even at six years old, I turned to chocolate when I was having a bad day. Good thing I didn’t have a credit card.
“God ignored me,” I said. “And now I’m going to ignore him. Forever.”
The following Sunday, my brother Mike and I were enrolled in Sunday school.
We went to church at 10:00 a.m. (got to respect a parish that doesn’t open its doors before double digits) and Sunday school at 11:00. If there is a hell I’m sure that whole pushing Heather Hoffman in the slush on picture day in fourth grade and playing Mommie Dearest with my seven-year-old cousin (I was Joan, of course) had already granted me a one-way ticket there, so I’m just going to say this: I hated it. There’s not enough Chips Ahoy and Hawaiian Punch that could have made those sixty minutes bearable. The only saving grace was that Mike and I were in the same class. Together we were a Bible-studying Heckle and Jeckle. We were like Statler and Waldorf from the Muppets, questioning the teacher’s teachings. Laughing inappropriately. Mike used me as his mouthpiece when he wanted more cookies or answers to things like, “Were apples the only thing to eat in the garden? Apples? Really?” (Mike’s not a fruit guy.) Or, “Didn’t Noah have any human friends? Why did he just save the animals?” (Noah was my favorite Bible character, by the way. I could totally relate to only saving animals.)
From 11:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m., Judy and the rest of the moms who had kids in Sunday school met in the back room of the Tally Ho diner across the street. There they could be found smoking cigarettes and drinking black coffee. I know this because Mike and I left class one Sunday under the guise of having the stomach flu, claiming we needed to use the facilities. Mike was really good at faking the heaves. We walked across the street to the Tally Ho.
“What are you doing here?” Judy asked when she saw Mike and me meander around the tables and chairs strewn with peacoats and purses. “You’re supposed to be in class.”
Mike took a slab of bacon from her plate.
“It’s booooooooooooring!” I told her. “Can I have a cigarette?”
We did the whole Sunday school thing every week for about five years. (Give or take a few Sundays when I was excused because I “passed out” in church. It was a phase and about forty thousand CT scans said as much, but once I learned it would get me out of Sunday school, I staged a few episodes. See? Going to hell.)
A few years later we took our first communion (wine!) and a couple years after that we were confirmed (cash!). I’m sure the official meaning of “confirmation” isn’t “stop going to church now,” but that’s what it meant for us. Perhaps Judy was hoping we wouldn’t need her throwing the covers off our sleeping bodies every Sunday to get up and go. Or maybe it had something to do with the Tally Ho burning down. I’m just saying …
Back then I dreaded Sundays, but now I look back with some gratitude. I’m glad Judy tried to instill a sense of religion in us. Other than the fact that we were kids and therefore couldn’t say no to her, Judy never forced it on us. It was more of a canvas for us to expand (or not) upon.
I chose to expand. In high school I went through a phase where I got really into crystals. I wore an amethyst around my neck and a tiger stone bundle in my pocket at all times. Later I learned one of the properties of amethyst was “inhibits drunkenness,” so I left it home on Fridays and Saturdays. No point in taking in all those empty calories if you’re not even going to get a buzz off it. My love of crystals was a portal into a whole New Age world. I was an honest-to-god tree hugger in every sense of the world, mixing concoctions of oatmeal and cornmeal and ham into a paste and spreading it at the roots of the grand oaks in our backyard. This was supposedly an offering in exchange for the lead in my school’s play or to get Skid Row to come to town for a concert. (And maybe a backstage pass for my friend Cindy and myself. And if possible, maybe for Sebastian Bach to fall in love with me. Just asking.…)
When the full moon rolled around, I concocted an offering to the tree spirits made of oatmeal, corn me
al, maple syrup, and birdseed (generously donated by my parakeet Bogie) and gathered up all my beloved gems and brought them outside in a bath of cool water and set them under the moonlight to recharge and clean them of my teenage karma. My parents saw me doing these things. I left the house armed with the only flashlight we had in the house, Judy’s spatulas, and a Tupperware bowl, yet they never commented. At least not verbally. Judy’s stamp of spiritual exploration approval came in the form of a ribbon-wrapped bundle of brand-new commercial-grade spatulas she left on my bed. They were the perfect size for spreading goo on the roots of old oak trees. My friends were making cash offerings to the college-aged potheads who lived across the street from the high school. I guess there were worse things I could be doing.
Judy was all too happy to drop me off at The Spirit Hut on Main Street to stock up on my crystals and dream catchers and bundles of sage.
“Better than dropping you off at Planned Parenthood,” she said.
She even got in on the action, plying me with more rose quartz than what was available in all the mines in Brazil. Rose quartz earrings, rose quartz pendants, rose quartz elephants and teddy bears. Apparently rose quartz is effective in “opening the fourth chakra”—yes, of course, the one that deals with “matters of the heart.” Rose quartz, among others, was said to help get in touch with our spirit guides—the divine forces I sought when faced with all the difficult challenges of being a teenager in upstate New York.
Alone in my hot-pink bedroom, I imagined myself surrounded by white light. Once engulfed in the light (divine light, not manufactured by GE) I took a deep breath and asked, “Spirit guides, please touch me.”
I used my voice to ask the spirit guides. Not telepathy or sign language or a smear of oatmeal on my forehead. Oh sure, there were lots of girls my age mumbling that same prayer. Only their spirit guides were senior class presidents and football players.
My books instructed me to determine how many guides I have. Apparently some girls have more than others.
“Is there at least one of you?” I asked.
Wait for an answer and then ask Number 1 to touch you.
I’m not sure how many guides I had or if the sensations I felt were real or just my subconscious blushing in embarrassment, but the first sign of a chill freaked me out. I turned on all my lights and ran downstairs to the TV room to join my parents for an hour of Murder, She Wrote. I wanted to believe. But perhaps fourteen was too young to be fully enlightened.
Moving to Seattle catapulted me knee-deep into the throes of “finding myself.” Unfettered from life as I knew it and the people who knew me, I now had the freedom to be whoever I wanted. Who I wanted to be was a cast member from Singles. I lived mere blocks from the apartment complex in the movie and fully expected life to imitate art. I (like Bridget Fonda) didn’t know anyone in Seattle, but it was a Mecca for flannel-loving twenty-somethings from all over the country. Meeting people was easy, thanks to my four part-time jobs and cool, indie record label internship.
One of my new friends was an earthy hippy artist named Phoebe. She was beautiful in an I-just-danced-all-the-way-here-from-Eureka, California-barefoot-and-razorless way. I was all too familiar with these patchouli-soaked hippy wannabes thanks to my four years at a liberal arts college in upstate New York, but Phoebe, with her anklet-jangling, toe-ring-wearing, yin–yang-tattoo-sporting style really pulled it off. She, too, was from New York and that, along with our appreciation for essential oils, birthdays in February, and abilities to consume vast quantities of red wine, bonded us. She was deeply spiritual, and I envied her that. Phoebe seemed to float through life in a lavender-infused cloud of mysticism. What religion she aligned herself with I couldn’t tell. Part Buddhist, part Wiccan, part stoner, Phoebe was always bathed in incense and good intentions. She appeared grounded and even-keeled and all kinds of motherly, even if she was four days younger than me. Her à la carte approach to religion inspired me. (She was also a receptionist at a massage school, so that air of calm about her wasn’t a façade. She got massages nearly every day.)
Phoebe was (of course) an artist—a painter and a poet—and as talented as she was, she suffered from delusions of other people’s grandeur. In an effort to channel the frustrated artist who allegedly lived inside all of us, she guided me through a series of meditative exercises guaranteed to free him.
“How do you know my frustrated artist is a he?” I asked her.
“It’s so obvious,” she answered. “You can’t feel that?”
Yeah, seems weird that I wouldn’t feel that, but no. My frustrated artist was more hands-off than I was.
“Close your eyes,” she whispered.
“Is this where you steal my kidneys and leave me in an ice bath?”
“Shh.… Feel the air moving through your mind, taking your thoughts with it.”
The emptying-my-mind part worked. Her voice was as soft and soothing as a corduroy pillowcase. How could I not fall asleep? When I woke up a few hours later, Phoebe had finished two paintings. One a portrait of Frida Kahlo and one of a frustrated artist breaking free from the confines of a stiff-armed skeptic who will always be picked last in Pictionary.
“That happened while I was asleep? Damn. Looks painful.” I checked myself for puncture wounds.
A few months later Phoebe and I were walking around Capitol Hill, dreaming about a vacation in Belize—or maybe Portland—when we came across a nondescript white house turned into a place of worship. The only sign of the holiness that lurked within was a tiny cross painted on the mailbox and a small sign planted in the grass proclaiming this the New Aquarian Church.
Still open to filling the spiritual void my perverted spiritual guides left when I was fourteen, I got excited. Phoebe and I were both Aquarians. It was meant to be.
We attended a service the following Sunday. (And like the church of my youth, these Aquarians didn’t get things started until double digits.) Phoebe and I were two of seven people total. Perhaps the later services were better attended?
A woman dressed in a colorful muumuu stepped up to the podium.
“Thank you for coming,” she said as she smiled. “And welcome to our new guests.”
All five regulars turned around to delight in our company. Aquarians are very friendly. We waved back.
“Today’s sermon is a special one. Reverend Joe is going to talk about forgiveness.”
“Oh good,” I said, leaning over to Phoebe. “Maybe I’ll learn to forgive you for putting that Free Mumia bumper sticker on my car.”
We stifled giggles, not wanting to make a bad first impression. While we waited for Reverend Joe to enter, Miss Muumuu brought out an old-school cassette player and placed it, along with a microphone, near the speaker.
“What’s going on?” Phoebe whispered. “Is this like the opening act?”
“They must be recording the sermon,” I said. “Maybe you can buy a cassette tape for a souvenir? I’m so getting one for Judy.”
Miss Muumuu clasped her hands in front of her. “Enjoy,” she said, winking at us.
Phoebe’s giggles were snuffed out by sounds of muffled chanting coming from the tape recorder. Where the heck was Reverend Joe? Perhaps he should get out here and clean the tape heads. Didn’t Miss Muumuu lady say enjoy? Enjoy what? Ear strain by electronics circa 1978? And then it hit me.
“Oh no, that’s Reverend Joe!” I whispered. “Or, at least, his voice.”
“Maybe he’s sick today?” Phoebe, ever optimistic, suggested.
“I’m in this dude’s house of worship and he can’t bother to come out and say hello?”
I felt the giggles coming on and fully expected Phoebe and me to be asked to leave. I tried to focus on the sermon and the rest of the parishioners but I could only make out every seventh word or so. Miss Muumuu was bobbing her head in the corner. Our fellow parishioners were smiling along. Not only could they understand this drivel but they agreed with it. When I turned to Phoebe to point this out, I was stunned by what I saw
: tears.
Noticing the tears (from laughter) streaming down my own face, she mouthed, “I know. So beautiful.”
What had I missed?
On the walk home, she touted the absentee reverend’s wisdom after reading the brochure Miss Muumuu handed us on the way out.
“He receives his sermons from another plane and channels them into the tape recorder. Isn’t that amazing? He’s so wise.”
Wise? Great. Now I’ll find a Free Reverend Joe from the Tape Recorder bumper sticker on my car.
Phoebe was deeply moved by Reverend Joe. She went back to the Aquarian Church every Sunday and bawled her face off during our coffee dates later that day.
“You should come back,” she begged me. “I’ve never felt more in touch with the Universe.”
Once again, spirituality had leapfrogged me.
These days I know all too well who my spiritual guide is. Her name is Judy and enlightenment can be yours, too, with the right amount of postage. Judy is open to all forms of illumination, including New Age philosophy. Obviously she loves the universe as much as if she were its mother, too. In return the universe finds her premier parking spots and the eight of clubs during Gin Rummy games. My one-year gift subscription to Netflix can hardly compete with that.
I already have tons of books about spiritual enlightenment from Judy and even a couple from Mike who used those $1.84 refund checks to spread the good word of the universe.
“You need to set aside seventeen or sixty-eight seconds every day to close your eyes and visualize your goals.”
Don’t ask. I already did. Apparently those times have been proven to be most efficient.
Mike claims it was The Secret that helped him sell his overpriced, almost sinking townhouse by the river (and subsequently not get sued by the buyers when he decided to not sell it at the last minute). Personally, I think the sale should be credited to the St. Joseph statue I buried headfirst in his front lawn, but whatever. Joseph and I don’t need the credit. The universe knows the truth and the universe will have to live with it.
Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Dungeons & Dragons Page 3