Lois' Journey in New Jersey

Lois herself on the road

Last week I wrote about 'Lois and Alison's Great Adventure'. 

This week, Lois has her say: 

Perhaps what I remember most about our cross-country trek - what I really cherish - is the complete acceptance that Ali and I practiced with one another.  Ali expresses it perfectly, “There was no sense of inequality, of owing, of favors granted and accepted, with the resultant feeling of burdens and debt. There was nothing sticky about it.”  And equally profoundly- we shared the same “reality”.  As if, during this rare and precious slice of time we dwelled in the “real” as opposed to the “unreal”.  We viewed the world in all its pain and glory with a common lens.

This is remarkable because Ali and I have such wildly divergent backgrounds; she the second child of two; raised abroad and in boarding schools, the product of a British diplomat father and French Catholic mother.  I, the oldest of 4, a “red diaper baby”, the daughter of ex-communists and atheists.  My mother smoked like a chimney and swore like a trooper.   Ali’s mother suffered debilitating headaches and attended church.  There was nothing to indicate that we could experience a shared reality.  And yet, as Ali so eloquently writes, “…the stories we shared…forged the connection between us and showed how much we are alike.”

Wally and Lois' house, built in 1894

For all of that- the closeness of our connection and the strength of our bond - Ali later writes that when we reached New Jersey “…it all fell apart.”  I admit that I was surprised to read this in her blog.  For here our common vision blurred. Because, for me, nothing could fall apart.  How can shared vision and experience, what became memory, disintegrate?  Circumstances changed and I suffered from the juxtaposition of the familiar with the foreign.  But the essence of our journey, our Odyssey, remains intact.  Or does it?  Can a memory remain intact?  Is this where our lenses shift, our common vision defers?  Is this where our backgrounds intrude to define not only the past, but this very moment?  Is this where that bedeviling, ubiquitous ego intrudes?  Is this where we question the meaning of “reality” in our quest to journey from the unreal to the real?

Lois and I with a Library Lion

Our expedition to New York together seemed to reignite that common vision.  Amidst thousands upon thousands of fellow humans, once again we travelled with a single lens.  Maybe.  In Central Park, Ali sees a restless, homeless man.  I see masturbation.  We shared common delight in the “doo-wop” group in front of the Metropolitan Museum; both of us valued the performance on the steps at least as much as the art inside its doors.  Yet I know that my experience was strained through the memories of old boyfriends and forgotten loves. And Ali’s?  Do we see the world with identical lenses, or feel the warmth of good intent, fellowship and closeness?  Short of enlightenment are we ever able to share identical perception?  Even in our most intimate moments?

Of course, the drive to the airport shattered any illusion of shared reality.  I was so completely alienated by then - not from Alison, but the stark realization that I was actually going to be living in this land of semi-hostile strangers, outlandish traffic patterns... well, being lost could only be a metaphor for the complete desolation and anxiety I was feeling. Being lost has always been such a fear for me. And driving in New York City?  I felt determined and panicked; resolute and terrified.  So, by the time we were negotiating some hideous maze of turns, and Ali said left, and my GPS magic map lady said right, I was lost in horrible nightmare of my own creation.  I recall yelling at Ali with some expletive worthy of my mother, I'm sure. 

That scary George Washington Bridge

In fact, I was terrified that I would be caught in an endless loop- that I would find myself once more on the George Washington Bridge, back to New Jersey, only to find myself re-crossing that monolithic structure again and again… What I don’t remember was “exploding in rage”.  I remember fear and anxiety; panic and terror.  Perhaps a sense of being let down by my constant navigator and companion who “steered me wrong” after so many days and hours of steering me right.  I don’t remember rage though, only fear.

And here is where that expectation of that valued, blessed common vision blinded us both, perhaps a little.  I’m guessing that the spontaneous explosions of frustration - and rage - so common in my growing up, were foreign to my sweet dear friend.  That for me, it was a blip and not an explosion.  And I know that I apologized, probably too little too late, and that Ali said that it had been a “good thing” because it proved that I felt comfortable with her.  What I didn’t say, is that this perverted expression of fear may never be a good thing.  What I thought only later is that until we can deal with “reality”, especially our fears, irritations and annoyances; learn to refrain, well, only then can we hope to find the path to the real.  For our inability to refrain only clouds a lens that suffers all too frequently from the smudges and scratches of our own confusion. 

In fact I got horribly lost on the way back to New Jersey, wandering around Newark (in the car at least) in such a state that even my GPS couldn't help me.  Finally, I called my husband Wally, who, bless him, has an extraordinary sense of direction.  He asked me to describe the buildings around me, which I did and he guided me home, not leaving the phone until I pulled into the hotel parking lot.

But the larger point for me is this - the implicit danger in defining our own separate and discrete realities.  Neither Alison or I could see what was “real”, blinded by our own fears and insecurities.  Neither of us could see the “truth that runs below our feelings” (Victor Byrd).  Alison’s reaction as a hurt and frightened child - my anger and pain, also as a hurt and frightened child.  How much damage do we do as we react and continue to live our lives from a place of illusion? 

Leaving California, my family, my friends and communities, has been painful for me.  I like to blame New Jersey.  The weather.  Rude clerks.  Traffic patterns invented specifically for my private torture.  So, I confided in my teacher, Victor, who responded with the following: ”I think that being in New Jersey is your practice now.  You can use technique to mitigate the discomfort, the loneliness.  But they are not coming from being in New Jersey.  They were here in San Pedro and until you get at the root of it, they will follow you cross country.”  Victor continues in a later email, “…when you use meditation to get rid of something you don’t like, what you are doing is just cutting off the “flower”, not getting at the roots.  And this is what our practice is all about.  Staying with it.  So maybe we could say that meditation does two things.  Maybe it helps us grow strong enough to stay with our anger, pain, sorrow, grief.  And then it allows us to see the truth that runs beneath our thoughts and feelings.  We see that they are empty of a “person”.  When we see that - we are free.”

I have begun to develop new communities in New Jersey, as I approach my fourth month here.  The Unitarian Church nearby has been warm and welcoming, providing me with access to so many lovely people.  I approach interesting looking people - women mainly - at the Social Hour after services and say, “You look so interesting, I wanted to come up and introduce myself.  My name is Lois”. And sure enough, my instincts have been correct and I have met and had lunch with some wonderful, interesting women.  Acquaintances will evolve into friendships.  Loose connections will tighten into communities.  I will be doubly blessed with dear friends from coast to coast.  I may someday be happy for the opportunity to have lived in New Jersey.

The house in winter

It is cold, and I jokingly ask my new acquaintances, “So, do you do this cold thing, every year?”  They assure me that they do.  I feel comfortable in our ancient rambling house, built in 1894, or thereabouts.  Our house ably sheltered much of our extended family during the week of Thanksgiving: our daughters and their husbands and young sons along with our own two sons and my 89 year old father.  I have my very own home office, right off of our sprawling Family Room.  I enjoy our old fashioned kitchen and backyard of almost an acre!  And the animals are doing fine.  Porkchop the dog, sits outside, even in this bitter cold, surveying her domain.  She likes the luxury of a fenceless yard, while remaining within its bounds.  I am adjusting.  I am adapting.

Lois and Wally with sons and daughters over Thanksgiving

Family and Porkchop sprawled in sprawling Family Room

Porkchop surveying her domain

We will, someday, move back to San Pedro.  But we will be different.  Pacific Unitarian Church will be different, Long Beach Meditation will be different, dear Alison will be different - even our beloved teacher, Victor, will be different.  My mother, with all her “mishagas” (Yiddish for “stuff”) always said, “The only given in life is change.”

I keep the words of our teacher in mind, “Remember that your loneliness is there to teach you and grow you.  It is not something to overcome by doing.  This does not mean that it is wrong to work on building community where you are.  These are important and good things in your life.  But I hope that you can let your circumstances be your teacher.  I hope you can find this friend who lives in your own heart.”

Sunset over the Pacific in California, Catalina on the left

Lois and Alison's Excellent Adventure

"So have you finished packing?" 
"Boxes everywhere. Sorting and throwing away."

"How about the pets?"

Lois winced. "They fly out on Friday by themselves." This was Tuesday. "The vet doesn't rate their chances very highly. He can't give them tranquilizers - something to do with the air pressure in the hold - and they're both so old and sick. Porkchop has a heart murmur and Jack has kidney problems."

We contemplated the horrible possibility of collecting dead pets from the airport.

"Have you considered driving out with them?"

"I have." Lois looked glum."But I can't see myself driving all the way to New Jersey by myself with old sick pets. Besides, it takes two people to give Jack his daily injection..." 

At which point we looked at each other and we started grinning and there was a lightening in both our hearts, and maybe that's dramatic, but it's also true: the atmosphere changed and brightened and you can guess what happened next.

Sometimes I imagine a conveyer belt of ideas zipping along above our heads. If we happen to look up and we have courage, those ideas are there for the grabbing. Only we have to be quick! Blink, the moment passes, the conveyer belt has moved on. This time we both looked up, saw the idea shimmering whole and beautifully formed in front of us and grabbed it with both hands. Later we wouldn't be able to remember who thought of it or how it came to be. It was just there, the perfect solution if we were brave enough to take it.

Over our Chinese food, we quizzed each other, trying to raise objections, finding none. Once we discovered a mutual love for belting out show tunes loudly while driving, there was nothing more to discuss. We raced through the meal and went straight to AAA to get maps and directions and anchor the project in reality. We came out laden with bags of hotel directories and a giant map of the USA with arrows in orange marker pointing the general direction of our route, giddy with laughter. Next step was to run it by the husbands, both of whom thought it a splendid idea. We were on! Lois sent me this email later that same day, giving me an out.

Dearest Alison,

I am so excited about our upcoming trip!  Having said that, I want you to know that I will love you every bit as much if you decide that this might not be what you'd like to do.  Really.  So this is your opportunity to gracefully decline.  It would be fine.  Really.

So, do let me know.  Tomorrow I will start canceling reservations if you are sure that this is what you want to do.  And it's fine if you don't.

What a fun day I had!  Thank you so much!

Love,

Lois

Of course I reassured her. I was positive. Why not? My own little Snuffy dog had died just a month previous. Daughter Helen was back in college, husband John was back teaching in school. There was nothing to keep me home. And the clincher was that, whatever else we were doing, we were "saving the pets".  Never mind that Lois had a rotten sense of direction, or that I had only recently started driving on freeways. And had never driven anything larger than a compact car any further than Oakland, six hours up a straightforward freeway.

Understand too that Lois and I were not close friends and knew very little about each other. We had met through Long Beach Meditation. Lois had given a couple of thought-provoking talks at LBM. I admired how well she expressed herself: she could make her listeners laugh and cry. She is a teacher, although she was just starting her career as I was getting out of mine. She had just finished student teaching when her husband Wally was offered a terrific career opportunity, unfortunately on the East Coast in New Jersey. In Lois' last month, we finally met for a quick lunch and enjoyed it so much, we crammed in another one two weeks later. And our brain wave was born.

On the road, Lois at the wheel

Eight days later, we set off at 6:30 in the morning of my daughter's 21st birthday, which seemed an auspicious date. After we loaded up the Honda Odyssey (of course it was an Odyssey), Lois looked at me and said, "So which way do I turn?" I said, "My goodness, you weren't kidding when you said you had a lousy sense of direction!" -and we promptly set off the wrong way. We turned on the GPS Lady who said, "Recalculating route" which she had to do several times in the course of our trip. While we were still heading down Seventh Street in Long Beach, not yet on our first freeway, not ten minutes into our trip, Lois asked, "So what do you think about karma? Do we live in a random universe or not?" What a meaty topic, and before 7 a.m. yet! We were off to a good start. 

I had a faint worry that we would exhaust our good conversation before the first rest stop, but I had failed to take into account the confessional quality of our traveling bubble. There was something about sitting side by side, looking ahead and not at each other's faces as women especially do when we talk, that was liberating. Imagine fifty hours in the van of intense daily contact. And there was something about the van itself. Once settled in our self-contained world, we opened the tap of memory. We pulled out our stories and laid them out for each other, the good, the bad, the sad, but always with a view to understand, to see how this led to that, searching for patterns. 

From the beginning we realized this was a unique, never-to-be-forgotten, astonishing experience. So unlike most things in life, we knew as it was happening that it was significant. There was no question of anyone being beholden to the other. There was no sense of inequality, of owing, of favors granted and accepted, with the resultant feeling of burdens and debt. There was nothing sticky about it. We wanted to save Porkchop and Jack. We earned a time-out from our lives, a five day respite. For Lois, it was a time to reflect, grieve losses and look forward to what lay ahead. For me, it was a rare opportunity to practice living in the moment, letting go of anxiety and control.


I squeezed in a brief sit every day while Lois had breakfast. (We took it in turns so as not to leave the animals unattended.) I knew it was as important for me to stay grounded during the happy times as it is during the hard times. And these were very happy times.

Porkchop hating the van.

For both of us it was a tremendously girl-power-ish to actually do this thing. To physically drive the distance. To manage the animals. Jack's twice daily "injection" proved to be a fifteen minute ordeal involving an I.V. and two strong people against one determined towel-bundled cat. Porkchop developed such an aversion to the van, we had to work as a team, Lois holding her on a short leash to stop her snapping, me her backside, to pick her up and stuff her into the van. She was not such a little dog that this was in any way a simple thing. 

Jack playing dead between the seats.

Jack was an excellent traveler, once he discovered that curling up under the brake pedal was not the smartest place to sleep. He made his nest between our two front seats on the floor and wouldn't budge. We'd prod him every so often to make him stir. "Oh good, he's still alive!" But soon we relaxed and trusted he was fine. How quickly we developed a routine. 

Best of all, we thought the best of each other. Before we took this trip, we knew we liked each other, we liked what we had heard and read of each other, we liked the concept of the other, but we didn't know each other. When I told a lady in my writing group what we planned to do, she said, "Lois must be a very good friend for you to give up five days of your life for her."  What a way to put it! Of course we talked about this idea, of giving up days of your life. And figured if these were somehow our last five days, what better way to spend them, doing this crazy good thing.


Because we were virtually strangers, we treated each other kindly, as you do a stranger: with gentleness and tact. We were supportive and encouraging and because we had previously only shown each other our very best selves, it was those selves who sat in the van with us, withholding judgment or criticism. 

We thought the whole trip an exercise in Right Speech, or as Ann Landers used to advise, Is it kind? Is it true? Is it helpful? We also practiced the other half of Right Speech: we listened to each other. In The Heart of the Buddha's Teaching, Thich Nhat Hanh writes, "Deep listening is the foundation of Right Speech. If we cannot listen mindfully, we cannot practice Right Speech. No matter what we say, it will not be mindful, because we'll be speaking only our own ideas and not in response to the other person." I never had the sense that Lois was thinking, "God! Who IS this woman?!! I'm stuck with her for how long?!!" Never. The feeling I got from her at all times was encouragement, love and total presence. I hope she felt that from me too. What else did we have to do, after all, but give each other our undivided attention? 

In the car it was the unspoken rule that the driver was queen. She could choose what to listen to, after one disastrous attempt by Lois to have me listen to Adyashanti while I was driving. His calm voice droning on about meditation nearly sent us off the road: "Lois! I can't keep my eyes open!!" So after that, the driver got to choose. And mostly, the driver chose to talk. Eyes ahead on the road, we could talk about anything. We established early on that "What's said in the van stays in the van", so I can't tell you what we shared. In the end though, the stories were the vehicle, as in our practice when we learn that the stories are simply the means to feeling the emotions, and once felt, can be transformed and let go. I don't need to hold on to the stories we shared, because their deeper truth was to forge the connection between us and show us how much we are alike. Truly sisters under the skin. Once we'd talked out all the differences, all that was left was how much we were the same.

The random universe versus non-random was a constant theme and one we never tired of discussing. Lois came down on the side of random; me, non-random, what with my love of symbols and synchronicity. It made for lively discussions. Lois flying out of the Chinese restaurant in Missouri, after placing the order for our take-away dinners, arguing, "But what about Auschwitz? What about Rwanda?" And then laughing at the sight of me leaning against the railing with Porkchop and the bottle of wine I was carrying in the hopes we would meet someone with a corkscrew, "You look like you need a tin cup in front of you, what with the dog and the wine." (Oh, and we did meet someone with a corkscrew attachment on his Swiss Army knife).


It was difficult sometimes to be serious. Everything conspired to make us laugh. Even when Lois was pulled over for speeding. I had just finished complimenting her on what a competent driver she was. "You really think so?" she said, delighted. "Nobody's ever told me that before!" and a state trooper's siren wailed on cue, slapping us on the wrist, a warning not to get cocky. 

Synchronicity abounded. Lois saying, " There aren't many Priuses in the Heartland" - and one pulls out in front of us. Daughter Helen calling just as I turn off the engine at a rest stop. Lois texting someone at the same moment that person calls her.

The very best example was as we were driving through farmland on a stormy day in Oklahoma. Lois said, "We should be listening to something from "The Wizard of Oz."" I suggested she turn on the Showtunes satellite radio station and see what was playing. She stared at me. "Out of millions of potential songs, a non-random universe would say you have a 50-50 chance. A random universe would say you have one shot in a million. You really want to take a chance?" I nodded. She found the station and disappointingly, it was playing something neither of us recognized. Then I glanced at the read-out of the title and gave a little scream. "Lois! Lois! Look!! It's called "The Wizard in Me!" The Universe is deaf, it just didn't hear the "of OZ" bit!!" (Later I was telling this to a friend whose jaw dropped and said, "No, no, the Universe is up to date. That song is from "Wicked" - the musical about the witches from the Land of Oz.") I was floored by that one.

So, is it a random universe or not? We did agree that both concepts are man-made constructs, part of man's search for meaning. Personally I think if it's a matter of choice, why not choose the path of meaning? It means that everything that happens to you is somehow a lesson, and the little signs I love are like encouraging pats on the back. Perhaps that's a load of hogwash. Lois would say, "What? There's some force up there that's arranging things so that the radio plays just the right song at just the right time? No! It's random!!"  But if it's all a question of perception - why not see it that way?

Lest you think we were floating in a perpetual state of high-minded bliss, here is what else we did.  We swore like troopers, who don't in fact swear as we found out when Lois got her ticket. We ate snacks, healthy and otherwise, in the car, instead of meals. I discovered there are times in my life when I show remarkable self-discipline and inside the van wasn't one of them. We sang our way through most of the 60's repertoire and all of Cabaret with great gusto. We drank a bottle of wine most every night. 


We saw a prairie dog looking out of his burrow and lots of roadkill, by far the most interesting of which looked like a little animal wearing a striped sweater. Eventually we figured out it was an armadillo. An armadillo! 

Lois and me. Note the effing ham

Missouri had the hilariously named town of Effingham. We stopped at the Visitor's Center 

hoping maybe for a postcard. What they had was a basket of pink plastic effing hams (pigs) as souvenirs and a great sense of humor. Missouri also made us cry laughing with a sign that read: "Hitting a worker in work zones: $10,000 fine. Lose your license." We saw at least four of these and couldn't believe that hitting a worker is such a common occurrence they have to have proper road signs made up about it. Missouri had the best breakfast: scrambled eggs, biscuits and this stuff I thought was oatmeal but turned out to be gravy that you pour all over the biscuits. I'd only read about that in books. It's delicious. 

How could you not be tempted to go 100 mph?

Then there was the scenery. Lois looked around at the vast deserts in the west and said, "I know there's a population explosion, but where are they?" New Mexico and Arizona bristle with buttes and mesas and tepees for tourists. Texas is as flat as a pancake, I mean not even a tree. No wonder they drove cattle across it. I found it richly symbolic that we left flat,  dry, barren land and as we headed east and our friendship deepened, the landscape became more and more fertile until finally we were in Pennsylvania, traversing mile upon mile of dense forest, thick as thieves. (Of course the symbolism would have worked equally well the other way, going from dense thickly overgrown vegetation to the opening up of expansive vistas. So this means you can cross the country in either direction and experience an epiphany.)


We stayed at La Quintas (they accept pets and throw in breakfast) in Flagstaff, Arizona; Amarillo, Texas; Springfield, Missouri; and Columbus, Ohio. We arrived in Parsippany, New Jersey on the fifth day, late on a Tuesday, wildly triumphant. We had done it! Thelma and Louise, and we lived to tell the tale! AND the animals survived. Euphoria.

And then of course it all fell apart. Wednesday, the day after we arrived, Lois hit bottom and cried. She had thought the hard part would be saying goodbye to California; in fact, the hard part, the huge mountain, was just starting: making a home in New Jersey and starting from scratch. It didn't help that a). the people were unfriendly and b). you can't make a simple left hand turn in New Jersey. People in the local Pathmark supermarket were unimpressed when Lois said brightly, "Hello! I've just moved out here from California!"  They didn't react at all. 

It was so awful, we fled next day into New York City. First thing we did was sit at an outdoor cafe to recuperate from stressful journey involving forgotten cell phones and missed trains. We launched into our ongoing discussion. 
Lois said, "I've figured out why this bothers me so much. Because if it is "meant to be", then it means that things like Auschwitz and Rwanda were on purpose, that there is real evil in the world and I can't abide that idea. If it's random, well then, oh well, shit happens." 
"No!" I said. But I didn't know how to refute her.
"What about the innocent children, how do you explain them? What had they ever done?"
"Who knows?" I said. "But those are things created by man, other people get caught up in them… " I felt tongue-tied and tried another tack. "Ultimately, none of it matters. For instance, if we got caught up in a giant explosion right here and died, we wouldn't die. Well, Lois and Alison would die, but not our essence, our soul, whatever you want to call it."

She remained unconvinced and I couldn't explain it more clearly than that. Our great debate ended on this unsatisfactory note. 

So we walked. We wore ourselves out walking blocks and blocks, checking out the loos in Tiffany's, lighting a candle in St. Patrick's Cathedral, eating a pretzel, and a hot-dog from a street vendor in Central Park, sitting on a bench opposite a homeless man doing unmentionable things to himself in his pocket (I thought he was fidgety; Lois had to explain), passing a pack of dog-walkers crossing the street with their multiple charges, sitting on the steps of the Met, listening to a really good doo-wop group playing on the street, going into the museum and getting lost in the art.

Dogwalkers off to Central Park

The doo-wop group outside the Met

Friday, Lois heroically drove me to JFK in her little Prius. Knowing how she is with directions, and what a long, scary drive this was likely to be, I understood this was a huge sacrifice, but she said after all we'd been through, she couldn't stick me on a bus. At one point, I glanced down to eject a CD and contradicted The GPS Lady. Lois made a wrong turn as a result and exploded in rage, the nerves, the stress, everything too much. That drive was horrible. Eventually we found the airport and she parked to come in and use the loo. I felt awful to think she had to make the return drive by herself. Lois said goodbye and gave me a distracted hug, lost in worrisome future, and that was the saddest thing of all. Where had the connection gone?

Saturday morning, back in my own bed in Long Beach, I felt disoriented, bone marrow exhausted, mentally, physically, emotionally, close to tears. What had happened to our jubilance, that we'd done it? What did it all mean? Did it have to mean something? Well, yes, if I truly believe in a non-random universe, and that life itself is a spiritual lesson. What was the trip ultimately about? 

I wrote in my journal, quite lost in the story, dredging up sad parallels between my mother and Lois and thus perpetuating suffering: "We can help each other but only up to a point. We believe we are separate, it is the cause of our pain - well, guess what, we are separate, we cannot share everything. Some things must be gone through alone. That's sad. That makes me feel sick. Like Mum, how I'd try to help and still could not prevent her having migraines. And now Lois has to settle and create a life alone, and nothing I or anyone else can do will help. Just like Mum. So how are we connected???"

Sunday morning, still flat, I wrote, "Good deeds evaporate, pop like a bubble." 

The word 'bubble' reminded me of something magical. On our nerve-wracking drive to JFK, somewhere in Brooklyn, between a tunnel and a bridge, in a neighborhood that could serve as a gritty West Side Story set, there was a man standing by the side of the road blowing bubbles into the traffic. He was selling a bubble machine. Pedestrians and cars alike were momentarily enchanted. In front of us was a sports car with the top down; the male passenger put up his hand to catch the bubbles, popping them all. 

As easily as a bubble bursting, our experience was gone. I'd had this image of a bubble in my mind for a long time - that life itself is a bubble, to be held gently, without grasping or clinging. For if you reach out for a bubble, chances are it will pop. You must hold it so gently. And the van taught me to hold not just life itself but another person as gently as a bubble. We are not taught that people are fragile and easily broken. What would it be like if we held each other as lightly as a bubble? Beheld each other as beautiful, as unique, as a bubble? The bubble image held as I looked back over our trip, connecting the dots, concocting a meaningful story out of it all. 

The van itself was a bubble, a cocoon, a safe place. We were inside the bubble, our best selves traveling together over uncharted land. Once I made the bubble connection, there 'popped' into my head the memory of the streetseller in New York. In my world, of course there would be a bubble seller, of all things, on a grey cold overcast day that threatened rain. What else could there be on such a dark day, me leaving, Lois having to brave the drive back alone? The two of us facing a couple of our own pet nightmares: saying goodbye at airports for me; driving in scary unfamiliar places when you're hopeless at directions for Lois. 

So there's the bubble man blowing globes of ephemeral light out onto the dirty, crowded, busy street. Let it go! Let it go! Open the hand of thought and let it all go. 

All things must pass and nothing goes on forever and there's a load of cliches, but we learned, once again, that life is relentless, it moves on inexorably. We had a moment to grasp that bubble of possibility in the Chinese restaurant. We had another moment to get to AAA immediately before I had to go to work, because without maps in hand, it would have fallen apart: it was that tenuous. So we leaned forward, just a tiny bit outside of our 'real life' and snatched the moment. We knew even then that it was a wild thing, a rare thing we had done, because we laughed as if we had cheated death. And in a way I suppose we had: the little death of the spirit that happens every time we say no to a possibility, to the richness of life. It's always out there. Opportunities present themselves, but most of the time we don't even see them because we have put ourselves in a box that says, "I don't do that." "I can't do that." "That's not who I am." Well, and who is this narrow "I"? Victor taught me months ago that "I" is just a label, that we are not a single self but a collection of selves. Nisargadatta says, "In reality there are no persons, only threads of memories and habits." 

Victor asked me back in January of this year, as I was heading miles out of my way to the only safe freeway onramp I knew, where was I going? And I told him, explaining that I was afraid of freeways. He asked mildly, "WHO is afraid of driving on freeways, and WHY is she driving the car?" 

And that was a revelation. And not just for freeways! This holds true for anything in life. "WHO is afraid... and WHY is she in control?" If you are not attached to a particular view of your self, or your life, or another person; if you are open and without expectations of any particular outcome, then truly anything is possible. So on this trip, for example, I discovered I had an inner race car driver. ("OMG, LOIS! I'M GOING 100!!") And I could be a vegetarian who eats steak in Texas and gravy for breakfast and pastrami sandwiches in New Jersey and MandMs for lunch and wine on the side of the road from an open bottle ... and the whole thing changes moment by moment. What is true today is not necessarily true tomorrow. But what if we held each moment as gently as a bubble... if we were simply aware of each moment and paid it our full attention? And if we then let the moments go, as go they must, with open hands and heart? Would we not then be living our life from a deeper place beyond man-made concepts and constructs? 


In writing this, I found myself pondering Lois' questions anew. What about Auschwitz? What about Rwanda? The intervening three months since our trip have shown me a new perspective. (Or given me time to think up a better story!) Auschwitz, Rwanda, war, any war, are bigger, blacker, large scale versions of the blackness that exists in every one of us when we think we are separate from each other. If you believe you are separate, and make up a story that feeds on that fear, you have a choice. You can either go into yourself, reach out to others or turn away. If you turn away, you have bought a story of victimhood, of not good enough, of loneliness. What follows from that must of necessity underscore this picture you have created of yourself. It colors your perception of the world. Everything that doesn't fit that view will be ignored, because the mind has no place to put it. It goes downhill from there.

Yet all of it is story, all of it is unreal. Who is Lois? Who is Alison? These are the costumes we are wearing in this life, named Lois, named Alison, with a body, a history, a collection of well-thumbed stories hidden behind the name. But when we die, we step out of that particular costume and our essence is revealed. As it is in meditation, when we sometimes get to step out of character. And as it also was on our trip for Lois and I. Our sharing our stories was the equivalent of unzipping the costumes. And then we could see how underneath the trappings, we were not so different from each other. And that's where the connection lies, in the stories we share. And that of course, is why I write, to share, to connect, to drop this tedious Alison mask and explore that which is universal. 

Next week Lois will pick up the story from her point of view. If you made it this far, thanks for reading! 

Lois

Jack 

Porkchop