Prajnaparamita

“It’s raining, of course.”

Hauling suitcase, violin, bokken, flower and dog down sixteen stairs (seventeen minus one), with a grocery bag wrapped about my head for good measure, I take three round trips back and forth to Black Beauty. The backseat is of course made up for the golden Goddess, the honey-girl, the lovely lunatic, a Mecca of blankets and treats and stuffies, including the mammoth that’s going on two and a half years now, still one tusk strong. Not that she’ll stay there, however my conscience is relieved knowing that if she wanted comfort, she’d have it. I’ve bottled water and tea and coffee, a bad of cuties and some granola bars, all placed within strategic arms reach.

“You ready Luna?”

Eyes. Snif. Nose wiggle. Tail wagging quickly.

“Ok, let’s do this.”

I’ve always loved road trips. Memories play happily in my mind of being little and riding out to Indiana every other summer or so. The van. Poster board pop had lined the windows with so we would sleep. Signs made with said board “is that your mother in law in the trunk?” held up for followers and passers-by, being confiscated and tossed at the next Stuckey’s. Oh man, Stuckey’s Chicken and the Case of the Violent Diarrhea. Rock Lobster played 20 times in a row and pop beeping the horn in time. Fresh coloring books and the scent of hot crayons. A cooler full of Shasta, exploding as it thawed. And Mom. And M.

We cross the first bridge into Rhode Island, and I’m wishing I had wiper blades for my eyes. “What am I doing?” I ask. “Well, for one thing,” I answer, “you’re traveling for work. And for the other, you’re traveling for you.” My mind stops as the electronic seeing eye clocks my passage and charges a toll.

But tell me you love me, come back and haunt me, Oh and I rush to the start. Running in circles, chasing our tails, Coming back as we are. Nobody said it was easy, oh it’s such a shame for us to part, Nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it would be this hard, oh take me back to the start. -Coldplay

Our first destination is Newport News (Mews, Luna calls it, hoping to find a c.a.t.) a ten hour drive that brings us over new territory. The Chesapeake Bay Bridge, 17 miles of under and over water passage, took my breath away.

“Breathe,” says the Sliph.

Glare off the water strained my eyes as I tried to make form of what might possibly be the other side. I was wrong. It is a good thing I had not prepared myself for this overwater adventure or I may have chosen a more inland route. I’m at my best in situations where confronting fears and challenges is left to chance, embracing the wheel of fortune as it is revealed again and again in my daily draw, and so I adjust the seat a smidge back, and with my hand on the backside of the Pot of Gold, windows rolled down, we embrace the ride.

In music, the bridge is typically where the tone of the song is changed. Lyrically, there’s retrospect and new understanding. In the construct of the chords, there’s typically the introduction of a new progression, using the third, fourth or fifth as tonic, or possibly a change from major to minor or vice versa. In many pop songs there’s often a transition in key, right before the entry to another verse or repetition of chorus. It’s an interval of sorts, that which can change or lend new meaning to words, or even irony in chord choice.

After my initial incredulity passes, I deeply tune in to the feeling of this bridge, how it parallels to the happenings in my life. I’ve left behind what was known and embraced simplicity. I’ve developed a serene rhythm of acceptance. As I know I can’t think of every possible outcome or turn or detour ahead, I’ve learned a quiet acceptance and peace in the chaos of change.

The bridge changes to a tunnel a few times, and Luna’s fur forms a dinosaur-like ridge down her back. She knows when change is happening and is very sensitive to it. I rub her from her neck to tail a few times, and she sits back in the seat. We’ve had each other’s back through many changes in the past few years. I’ve got her back, and I know she has mine.

Upon arrival at the hotel, it’s made abundantly clear that I am no longer the girl I used to be (thankfully). During the short walk to our temporary quarters, I’m aware of my legs are vibrating uncontrollably like an A/C powered Hitachi wand. Heat from the shower and an hour on the mat bring peace to my psoas. Age and use have helped me to understand that I need to take the time I need to care for my body, whether it be eating healthily or exercising or stretching, as much as I need that time for my mind too.

The next day and night pass quickly, and I’m on the road again, due west, diving into the past. Yes, this is a journey of healing. It’s also a yard stick to provide perspective to years of shadow work and trauma therapy. So often I’m bound to the immediate experience, or one from the past, it helps to take a third eye view on just what has actually transpired. The miles tick underneath, and Alan Watts beats in..

The meaning of life is just to be alive. It is so plain and so obvious and so simple. And yet, everybody rushes around in a great panic as if it were necessary to achieve something beyond themselves – Alan Watts

And suddenly again I’m awakened. To identify with healing is also to identify with suffering. I’d become addicted as much to my suffering and the alleviation thereof as I had any drug or sex or hobby du jour. At what point can you say, “that’s it, I’ve healed enough. “ how many times do you check in on a scab and pick at the edges before leaving it alone? If there’s a wound that will not heal, typically there is a sickness feeding it. If there was cocaine in the house, it’d soon be up my nose. So, don’t bring cocaine into the house and even better yet, stop hanging out with the supplier. Stop driving down the street they live on. Move out of town if you have to.

“If thy eye offends thee, pluck it out.” Matthew 5:29

The remainder of my trip is seen through these rose colored glasses, with understanding that everything I am doing is now because I want to, not for some purpose or position. If healing is needed, it will happen naturally. No force needed.

And so, I had a delightful visit with the most beautiful woman in the world. We ate. We cackled. We visited friends and went out in the town. We played with dogs and smoked cloves and dished ideas for creative ventures. We drove downtown into the Crossroads and soaked up art. I made note of how some places change, and others are icons.

What I was most dismayed to see what what I had come for. The Temple. I had built this beast up in my mind as a monolith of magnificence. It was living and breathing, writhing with magic and creative power. Now though, to see it, was as to see a body prepped for embalming- all of the blood, all of the vital energy was gone. And so it was, just another building in a tiny town in the middle of everywhere. All of the meaning, the magic, the life, the power that this structure had was that which I had put into it. Without it, it is merely an organization of limestone and marble.

The journey home is smooth and uneventful. I think of nothing most of the way. I pet the dog. I listen to more Watts, I snack on whatever’s at Love’s and drink black coffee from Starbucks. And really, that’s how this whole business started. A kiss and a black coffee, with a green stopper plugging the steam vent. I started out with a little yellow dog, and ended up with another one.

My life has indeed changed forever. My life would have changed in other ways had I not taken that lunch date extension. And to this I have only to say, I’m okay. I’m okay with what is, whatever it is. People and experiences come and go. Grieve as they come, so that when they go it doesn’t hurt so bad. If you can’t imagine your life without someone or something, that’s hardly romance. It’s addiction, and invitation to suffering.

It is what it is.

You should therefore know the great mantra of Prajnaparamita, the mantra of great magic, the unexcelled mantra, the mantra equal to the unequalled, which heals all suffering and is true, not false, the mantra in Prajnaparamita spoken thus: Gate, Gate, Paragate, Parasangate, Bodhi Svaha. -The Heart Sutra

Through our eyes, the universe is perceiving itself. Through our ears, the universe is listening to its harmonies. We are the witnesses through which the universe becomes conscious of its glory, of its magnificence. -Alan Watts

The future disappears into memory
With only a moment between
Forever dwells in that moment
Hope is what remains to be seen -RUSH