To Develop 'One'

It was refreshing to hear the guest yoga instructor remind me that all around the planet humans strive for similar pursuits.  After schlepping luggage and two laptops—because I can’t write for twogirlsarebetterthanone on government equipment—through the double sliding doors of too many Hampton Inns, eating meals in Mexican restaurants where mariachi bands stop at tables with families but not for singles, and solo piloting through the cold sweats and terrors that come with driving east to west to east on I-10, I forget to remember that I’m not one—we’re all one.

Say it with me, “I belong.”

Whether you are female or male and need to be surrounded by women for the sake of sanity calibration, go find a yoga studio.  I’m pretty sure my religious-release began with the uniting of female voices for Ohhhhhhhhmmm.  Mornings like this bring renewal.  Even though I didn’t bathe or shave my legs (since last Saturday when I missed), the class caused the molting of a layer of dead mind cells.  Ahhh, the symbol of snakes—maybe that’s why I felt a first kundalini rising.  It left a yellow sun burst before escaping through my crown. 

Light shows never occur during excruciating stretches and garanimal poses.  But an hour into the 2 hour workshop, my equilibrium gets whack and I am a bit disoriented, lagging two steps behind the class.  I begin to see purple, blue and yellow swirls.  It’s like my own personal aurora borealis.  (I’ve never seen the aurora borealis, or the Marfa lights in West Texas, or the weird clouds that fall from the sky in the Middle East; but, you might have so you know what it’s like when weird stuff drops in).  I welcome these shows—unless my equilibrium gets whack (and I look drunk and lost in what was already a poor exhibition of mimicry)—; they are colorful silent movies. 

Sometimes there’s form to the energies like lotus flowers, and counterclockwise infinity swooshes, and phantom-like faces that push against a white floating veil.  Sometimes I follow a pinhole light down a black tunnel, hoping to jump into a magical portal and time trip.  But my Diksha teacher said to stop doing that.  In fact, he said to stop doing anything when you’re sitting still.  Maybe that’s how my monkey mind shows up and then introduces a qualitatively different kind of adventure.

After class, I had to sit on the stoop, get my bearings, and wait for the yoga instructor to come out.  (I’m practicing the discipline—‘the following of heart interests’ discipline, remember?  You’re still my silent support, aren’t you?)  To no avail, the instructor was surrounded by students, and my gadar was busted or needed fresh batteries…or something.  Still, I get one point for not running away from the opportunity.

I got home and made wild rice with diced spinach and portabellas, fresh green beans with yellow & red bell peppers, and that beautiful drum filet that I picked up from the hippie market yesterday.  Of course, I crammed two slices of seduction bread in my mouth because I kept thinking about that yoga (instructor’s) workout. 

The phone lit a few times, but I kept cooking—not wanting to unplug from my peace.  I took my perfect meal to the back patio, looked across the yard and noted the many falling leaves. “I’ve been in this house for almost a year, alone.  It’s time.  I feel change coming," I thought.  Also, I am eager to move because I don’t want to rake this enormous yard one more winter.

I thanked the fish for giving its life, and then I eased back into reality, starting with the Saturday Changing-of-the-Sheets.  This perfect afternoon happened because I got my butt out of bed and sought some new way to start the weekend.  And the perfect meal happened because you can’t say for too many days in a row, “I’ll cook the fish tomorrow.”

By the time I took the load from the dryer to the oh-so-very-lonely master bed, I thought about my next girlfriend.  (I don’t have anyone in mind, but the yoga teacher’s body nearly prompted a couple of audible “Hmmms”).  I turned from the bed until I cleared my mind.  I thought about how grateful I’ve been to have this year to release Ex#3 without feeling like I needed to make a new relationship work.  Like the couch and all of its desperation vapors, I dont want to move left-over muck into my next relationship. 

Thinking about the variety of women in the yoga class, I wonder if heterosexuals feel like they can reinvent themselves.  I’m sure they say, “I’m  going to try harder; listen more; yield a bit.” But how much can one break out of social conditioning?  The original state of selfness hearkens from before sexual identity. Confounding the multiplistic dynamics, social conditioning is invisible.  It imprints itself without written authorization. So, I ask you this, "When a heterosexual female finds an attractive male, can she not fall into a nurture, post-adolescent, conditioning?"

Hear me out, if you will, while I type out loud. For girls who date girls, we might move into an awareness of “other” when we become intimate.  (I say might because it speaks to the theme of this blog.  Lesbians so often trust other lesbians that they don’t see differences until they’ve lived together for a year, have collected 2.5 animals and completely enmeshed and ensnared their credit scores.) A self-aware lesbian might awaken a different facet of who she is while with a partner, but she is still a she among another she(s).  When I’m in a room full of women, I don’t shift so much that I take on a secondary persona.  I’m who I am. With two girls, there is no testosterone—or any of its bi-products—that introduce difference.  So, compare our state of “otherness” to a heterosexual’s state of “other” plus “different.”  

Maybe this is why heterosexual females so easily address adult lesbians with statements like, “Hey, you girls.”  Maybe they don’t believe we’ve taken the step into womanhood. Can I know who I am without a comparison to who I'm not?  Yes; I need a mirror not an anti-mirror.  Better yet, I need 24/7 live stream video like on EdTv where I fall in love with Matthew McConaughey.  No, I'm a lesbian.  I fall in love with Jenna Elfman...wait!  Ellen was in that movie.  Who I am? I'm completely lost.  I think I was talking about how heterosexual women are pulling double-duty, developing an additional psyche that compliments the male one.  Oh god- is that what I have to do to be whole?  There’s only so much you can ask of a lesbian in life. 

Clearly, I’m trying to define a metaphysical state that the feminine literature—to the best of my knowledge—hasn’t printed.  I am not underdeveloped if I concentrate on developing my female psyche to its fullest potential.  I won't split my energies.  Dedication and devotion lead to expertise.  I will be the most optimum female I can be when I die—like Demi Morre; I mean G.I. Jane…but different.

Despite my perfect morning that led to a perfect meal, I’ve found myself in a conundrum.  All humans are not striving for similar pursuits.  Lesbians keep to their sector.  They don’t split and develop a complimentary persona that is based on best guesses about a hormone that flows through a different kind of body.  Lesbians add to—enrich—a particular niche of her mind, and thus her soul. 

Still—getting back to the yoga instructor (point)—, we are one.  It’s just that some of us are on different paths, with similar but different pursuits, for a common evolution.  I can say what I said, just above, this way, "Lesbians enrich a particular niche of the one-human mind, and thus the collective soul."  In the end, the one-human composition will be much better if each of us develops our own peculiar sector.  Therefore, I will do my part and stick to my discipline—‘the following of my heart interests'—because two girls are better than one.