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