My Experience at Zen Retreat

 This past weekend I had the opportunity to attend my first Zen retreat. I say, opportunity, because when you're a full-time mom going away for four days is a major production involving--but not limited to--overnight accommodations for children, transportation to child's various activities all over town, explanations and reassurances in three-year-old language that "Mommy still loves you" and "Mommy will be back soon", the packing of children's clothing, "blankies", snacks, summer workbooks, play scripts, computers/video games/portable gaming systems, and leaving the house in general order in the hope that it will retain some of this order upon returning. Anyway, you get the idea. (TheDarkLord wishes everyone to know that the house did maintain some semblance of order upon my return. This is his personal accomplishment.)

I had been to this particular retreat location before, in the Appalachian hills, at least 100 miles from the nearest Wal-mart. As I drive in, I am greeted by a resident (someone who lives at the location usually as a zen teacher) with a Korean name. And I'm assigned a room, a double, which I am to share with a stranger, in silence, for the four days. 

At zen retreat, silence is maintained beginning with the first sitting period and ending with the final sitting period on the last day. The exception to this of course is during work period when you can speak what is "necessary" for completing tasks--cooking, cleaning, yard work, etc.--with others. 

Initially, the idea of complete silence for four days was greatly intriguing. I mean, currently I live in a house with a preschooler and an ADHD elementary school student who compete with each other over how many times they can say "Mama!" in a single day. But after the first 24 hours, I was surprised to find it a little lonely. To meditate, and eat and sleep next to someone and have no dialogue with them. To know nothing about them, sometimes not even their name.

The general retreat schedule was as follows: 5:30 wake up (A shower was not an option for me at this hour, as I could not possibly be awake enough to be sure I wouldn't drown.); 6:00 thirty minutes of chanting, mostly in Korean, ten minuets of walking meditation, and thirty minutes of sitting, another ten minutes of walking, and another thirty minutes of sitting (all of this without coffee or a morsel of breakfast).

Finally, it's time for breakfast, and all 17 of us march from the temple to our nourishment in silence. Just the crunching of shoes on the path. The batting away of bugs (eeeeeeeeeenpt!) which have the propensity to kamikaze into my ear, mouth or eyes. Breakfast is another ritual. (There are several youtube videos on Oryoki, mindful eating, though none of them were quite like the one I experienced.) Essentially, you have four nesting bowls wrapped inside a napkin which serves as a sort of place mat, a spoon and chopsticks on top of this, and everything underneath your lap napkin. A small piece of paper on top, so you know which seat is yours, as no one can speak to tell you such a thing. 

I won't go into the entire ritual as the obsessive-compulsiveness of it might just bore you to death. I found the entire ritual both soothing and pointless. Yes, there is a certain dance to all of it, the sound of water poured from bowl to bowl, the clicking of the spoons, the silence as each participant finishes and falls still, the fact that you have washed your own bowl (with hot tea) by the completion of the ritual without ever having left your seat. But this, among some of the other rituals felt like something "extra" to me. More on that below.

After breakfast was a work period, followed by alternating sitting and walking periods, 30 and 10 minutes respectively, so that by lunch time I have logged 3 hours of cushion time just for the one day. Yes, my ass was hurting. Who ever said it was easy just sitting around all day?

Lunch was much the same as dinner. I should mention that the food was excellent! And you were permitted to take as much as you wanted "but not more than you can eat". At the first afternoon sitting, the zen master gave a talk, followed by interviews. Interviews are conducted during sitting meditation. Interviews, as I have been told, are a chance to ask questions and/or receive instruction about your practice. So, one by one, mediators left the temple and then returned. More on my interviews later. 

We had a rest period from 4:30 until dinner at 5:30, which consisted of leftovers from lunch and dinner. Nothing to sneeze at. The leftovers were better than any meal at my house! The meal was informal (though silent) and only a handful of individuals came. We ate in silence and washed the dishes in silence and turned the light off when we left.

The evening of course was another 90 minutes of chanting and sitting, followed by a hike back to our quarters in the pitch black. At 9:30, lights out. At which point, I'm not too proud to confess, I played Plants vs. Zombies until I fell asleep.

Overall Impressions

From my very first encounter with zen what I found attractive about it was it's simplicity. Zen teachs that you didn't need anything extra to attain enlightenment. That enlightenment can be attained now, today. (By enlightenment, I am thinking of satisfaction, and contentment with the self and the universe.) That rituals and ceremonies aren't necessary. The work of zen is done on the cushion. It is you and your thoughts, and nothing else. Or, as my favorite Kung Fu panda would say: there is no secret ingredient, it's just you. 


For me, then, the practice of zen is: when it's time to sit, I sit. When it's time to walk, I walk. When it's time to eat, drink or lay down, I do that. That is all. There is nothing more that is needed. Nothing extra.

Most of what I have learned about zen has come from books. One of the most insightful reads has been, and continues to be, Zen Mind, Beginner's Mind by Shunryu Suzuki. A classic by many counts. He writes, 

"If you do something in the  spirit of non-achievement, there is a good quality in it. So just to do something without any particular effort is enough. When you make some special effort to achieve something, some excessive quality, some extra element is involved in it ... you should get rid of that something which is extra ... When you practice zazen, just practice zazen ... if something extra comes, you should try to stop it ... try not to achieve anything special. You already have everything."

It was all the extras, then, which I found incredibly distracting during retreat. To just sit, and just walk, and just eat, it seemed, wasn't enough.

Interviews With the Zen Master

I had two interviews with the zen master during my four days. And these short one-on-one sessions left me with a similar feeling as the retreat rituals. Unessential, useless, extra. It was not a bad experience by any means, and being my first time speaking with the man, I'm sure it would be difficult to give personalized instruction.

The impression I have is that interviews are a chance to ask "the master" or the teacher deep and profound questions about one's practice or the nature of reality or other zen paradoxes. But, again, for me, zen is quite simple. It's usefulness and beauty are based solely on that simplicity. And complicated discussions about how many bodhisattvas can stand on the head of a needle, seem more like mental gymnastics, a hierarchy of fools, than actual practical advice.

So, upon entering my interviews, I am always asked the same question: do I have any questions. And you've probably figured out by now that the answer has always been "no". There's a paradox for you, boys and girls. Now what is the zen master to do with me (who presumes to know everything) for the rest of the ten minute interview? After all, this is the main event, no? This is what we all came here for. 

I bear the zen master no ill will. He is an intelligent and kind soul, and I'm sure he has brought insight and comfort to many. But, truth be told, I walked away from my interviews thinking, What was the point of that? Did I miss something? 

To sum up ... while zen meditation may very well be a solid tool for focusing one's mind, gaining a clarity of oneself and situation, like everything else, it has carelessly bogged itself down with religion. It almost seems like there is some human compulsion to take a small grain of truth, a sincere moment of clarity and build up myths and ritual structures around it. As if without them, the truth might disappear! All conjecture of course. 

Bottom line: a total lack of simplicity at retreat was disrupting my zen!

Packing Up My History: How Personal Narratives Can Hold You Back

For the first week since February, I have failed to make a post. Circumstances have made it suddenly obligatory that TheLordofDarkness and I clean out the basement of our former house, which we had been using for storage. And said project monopolized all of my physical and mental energy for the week. Sadly, I have a few more weeks yet to go. 

So I descend to the cellar of my personal history and sort through all of the stuff I have accumulated in my adulthood, but don't actually use. Why do I keep this stuff? I suspect it has something to do with using physical objects to anchor my non-physical identity.

I am thinking of  "identity" as my personal narrative, the collection of my individual experiences, what makes me me and not you. These solid objects -- books, Strawberry Shortcake dolls I played with as a kid, my daughter's baby clothes, a picture that is too ugly to hang on the wall -- all of these are what make me special, unique. They point to an individual who is most definitely here.

And if I lose these "things" that make me me ... what will happen to me? Will I cease to exist? Of course not. But I feel this pulling (mine is in my stomach) when I hand over my "treasures" because there just isn't any room for them any more.

Things I Have Held On To

1. Dance clothes. These are the leotard, tights and shoes I danced in during undergrad. I took a ballet class partly for exercise and partly for nostalgia, remembering my long hours of dance class at the performing arts school I attended.
2. Grandfather's shirts. My grandfather had a particular style of dress from which he never varied: jeans, a long-sleeved flannel, cowboy boots and a large shinny belt buckle, donning the seal of the state of North Dakota. Nothing quite like sinking into his lap, his chuckle and the aroma of Lucky Strikes. 
3. Gymnastics uniform. Ah, yes. This is probably where the greatest pride of my youth lies. Tumbling, swinging, flying, chin high, sticking your flat chest out, proud as a peacock. This is my proudest me at my proudest moment.
4. Childhood Winnie-the-Pooh lamp. Somehow, hanging on to this feels like being that child again. Reading bedtime stories with my dad. Dreaming that I could be anything I wanted to be. When I look at this lamp, I think I would like to be that child again.
5. Religious artwork handmade by my aunt. This is a tough one. I feel bad giving it away as my aunt is a professional artist, and a particularly good one. But I will never hang it up in my house. I can't give it to another family member as they all have one exactly like it. Giving it away feels like betraying my family. So, it collects dust.
6. Textbooks. Containing a good portion of the knowledge I have accumulated, some of which I have rejected but am grateful to have learned nonetheless. I have fooled myself into thinking I will look at them again someday. 
   

   

   Damn those cute baby girl clothes!

7. Children's clothing. I have not yet given up on the idea of blessing humanity with yet another of my gorgeous offspring. However, truth be told, there are some baby clothes, like that pink baby dress with the lacy ruffles, that I will probably still hold onto long after the rest have been hauled off to Goodwill. I have dreams of my Dementia-ed self spending my nursing home days clinging to such relics, and gazing longingly over pictures of my angels. And, repeating it again the next day, as I will have forgotten the entire previous day.

So, I pack each of these pieces of myself away in boxes, and rent a storage unit to hold them until I can afford a residence capable of housing "all" of me.

I wonder if these bits of myself are holding me back from being the me that I right now. Am I fully able to let go of these narratives of myself? Some individuals are so attached to their material possessions, extensions of themselves, they could not possibly live without them. Am I like this? Am I enough right now, without all these trinkets?

A popular Zen teaching is that you have everything you need to be happy at this very moment, you only have to realize it. This teaching is sometimes illustrated using Magic Eye artwork. At first glance, the page is merely covered in seemingly random patches of color, shapes and lines, but once your eyes adjust, you see a 3D image of a whale, or a beach house, or a space ship. The 3D image was there even when you couldn't see it. It just took an adjustment of perspective. 

An adjustment of perspective, not a change of circumstances, is what I needed to see that I can be happy in this moment without anything extra. Without all my stuff. Just me is enough.

A Weiner Dog With Mustard Please

Did I miss something?! I mean, I don't follow politics, and I wouldn't consider myself a Weiner fan, but this recent controversy over the mayoral candidate is flat out stupid. As far as I can tell, Anthony Weiner got caught (again) texting nude photos of himself to women he had been chatting with (for a period of time) online. This is news worthy?

Refresh  my memory. Since when is it illegal to send naked pictures of oneself over the wire? Oh, wait, were there children in the pictures? Receiving the pictures? No? Oh, okay. So then he must be imposing his sexy pictures on unwilling ladies? No? Um, okay ... so, exactly what has he done that every other hot-blooded American male hasn't done or thought about doing? And since when is said activity illegal?

Sometimes, when engaging with those inflicted with the monogamy-is-right mindset, I get the feeling that their disapproval stems from more than just cultural deviation. In other words, they're jealous. They wish polyamory was an option for them. Maybe they feel that time has passed them by, or that their current partner would "never go for it". But they look at me, in all my slutty happiness, and think, if only ... At first sight, they are intrigued by the thought of poly, then, in the very next breath they're running down the (obvious) gamut of poly critiques.

What's the rub? Well, if I'm not allowed to be a happy slut, then no one else should be allowed either. I spent my life suffering needlessly. The least you can do is suffer in the same way. I didn't get to be happy in my life-long relationship(s), why should you get to sleep with whomever you want and get away with it? 

Suggestion: are Weiner's critics merely jealous that he indulges (shamelessly) in his own sexual fantasies, while they've had to deny themselves in the name of decency? And, yes, I want to use the word "jealous", because jealous is: Why does she get a bigger piece of chocolate cake? and Why doesn't he have as many grey hairs as I do? Jealous is I'd rather see you brought down to my level so we can both suffer, than watch you enjoy something I don't have, even if I don't really want it.

How many men, I wonder, deny themselves opportunities to indulge their (legal, mind you) sexual fantasies because they have been convinced by the morally superior (and usually hypocritical) that said fantasies are "wrong"? How many do engage in said explicit activities but fear discovery, especially by a spouse, because their spouse has been indoctrinated that "good husbands" don't engage in said activity? So, why should Weiner be allowed to do what ever he wants and just get away with it? Politicians can't be sexual! They must be chaste, monogamous, and, let's just say it, asexual. Is that really so much to ask?

Or maybe, Weiner's critics still live in the delusional world where monogamous love lasts for a lifetime and is completely satisfying. I keep forgetting that some people believe this fairytale. Sigh.

My mother actually says she doesn't understand why Weiner's wife stays with him, and stands by him. HELLO! That's an easy one: because she wants to. Is this really even a discussion topic? Again, with the happily-ever-after. So, he likes showing off his body! What is the big fucking deal? He's not even sleeping with these other women (reportedly). And even if he were, how is it anyone else's business but his and his wife? She accepts him and his behavior (at least publicly).

Sydney Leathers

And who is this chick with the purple lipstick going on about, I thought he had changed, and He's lying to everyone? Sydney Leathers says she felt manipulated by him? Are you kidding? She develops a relationship of some kind with this man who has a known "issue" (because it was such a scandal the first time). Then she's shocked when he sends her naked photos and runs straight to the media! And we're supposed to believe that Leathers is the one being manipulated here.

Of course if Weiner (or Leathers) was caught gazing at Playboy or pursuing through Hustler, well that's an acceptable form of sexual expression. And just when I thought our culture had progressed a smidgen.

Why I Let My Kids Go to Church: An Apostate's Perspective

My parents raised me in a Protestant church. They are both devoutly religious, sometimes even to the point of compromising their own happiness. But then, I guess that just makes them martyrs. And I suppose my reverend mother is thrilled about that. TheLordofDarkness and I do not attend church of course, as we are atheists. But my parents offer to bring our daughter (and son when he is old enough) to Sunday services. And, if she wishes, I permit her to go.

Certainly, I do not wish for my kids to grow up devout Christians. I do not want them to sacrifice their happiness for the sake of piety. And, most of all, I do not want them to develop the superiority complex that seems to come with so many fundamentalist theistic traditions.

However, I believe, the most effective way of preventing my daughter's "salvation" is to pay no attention to it whatsoever. I deliberately show no preference either way. In fact, in some ways, I almost think it is better, at least for now, for her to go to church, given the opportunity. Especially since I don't have to take her, which of course I never would.

Why do I think sending children to church is a good thing?

Truth is self-evident

When thinking of my daughter sitting through liturgy, I remember my own journey through the halls and falls of religion. And it is that journey, my own experiences, which have made me the luminous apostate I am today. A quote my Friedrich Nietzsche is one I have carried close to my atheist heart since the inception of my non-belief: People who comprehend a thing to its very depths rarely stay faithful to it forever. It is the knowledge of the thing which will drive her away from the church in the end.

I have complete faith in the church to reveal itself to my intelligent children in due time. Hypocrisy is never so clear as when you are face-to-face with it. I will, of course, love my children no matter what choices they ultimately make. However, at least when it comes to hypocrisy, an inability to recognize empirical evidence, and a reckless ignorance of the true needs of humanity ... well, the church as never let me down before.

The Allure of the Forbidden

If I learned anything from my parents it's that any time they want me to do something, I want to do the opposite. Even if I don't really want to. Just for spite. So, not letting my kids do something is the only surefire way to guarantee they will do it.

My approach? I keep it cool. It's no big thing. Sure, go to church if you want to. I don't agree with it or believe in it, but you can if you want to. The hardest lesson I've had to learn as a parent is how to make non-compliance a non-event. But once I got that down, well, I just took all the fun out of being stubborn!

Religious education is important

I know, I know ... say it ain't so. Whether or not we agree with it, religion is part of human history. And part of growing is learning from mistakes. Ignorance of history helps no one, and only threatens a repetition of mistakes. We don't avoid teaching our children the horrors of the Holocaust. Why should church history, or Biblical history, be any different?

Knowing about something doesn't make it true. Granted, the church will teach that their truth is the only truth. Unfortunately, for them, the world is getting smaller. Schools aren't allowed to acknowledge Christmas without also teaching Hanukkah and Kwanzaa too. Kids are smarter than most adults give them credit for. And the mere exposure to differing traditions, cultures and points of view reveals the impossibility of "only one" truth. Trust in the hypocrisy of the church. It won't let you down.

There is one criteria I gave my daughter for attending church. She is allowed to believe whatever she wants as long as she is tolerant of the beliefs of others. She asked me why TheLordofDarkenss and I didn't go to church. I very simply explained that we didn't believe in "god" and we didn't agree with the things the church taught. Predictably defiant, she proclaimed that I was wrong. That there was a "god", etc. (She said the same thing when I told her there was no Santa Claus, btw.) And I told her it was fine if she wanted to believe that. But intolerance was not acceptable, and a one-way ticket to sleeping in on Sunday morning.

Everyone is on his or her own journey through life. And I don't put myself in a position to tell others what they should or shouldn't be doing (except in extreme cases), including my children. I will be here for them no matter what paths they choose in life. And if nothing else, I can dispel the myth that atheists are evil, devil worshipers.

Cultural Conditioning: Watching Kids at Play

It’s refreshing to watch children play. For one thing, I am reminded what it was like to be totally free to express myself in every way I could think of, without the fear of being shamed. It is balm to the soul to remember that freedom is still inside of me somewhere. Albeit small and silent.

The other reason I love watching my children express their imaginations, is that it reminds me of the filter my cultural upbringing has instilled in me. The filter through which I view the world. For example, my first encounter with filters was when I realized most people didn't walk around as angry as I was.

When I was younger I was angry all the time. Instead of rose-colored glasses, mine were gray and sometimes black. As a result I was an embittered and impossible child. (Sorry, Mom.) And I thought this was how everyone saw the world. It wasn't until after years of therapy and meds that I discovered, most people can and do enjoy life! How odd.

This is to say, we aren't aware of our filters until they are pointed out to us. Typically, children have had much less exposure to cultural norms and expectations. So they aren't restricted in their play the way adults can be.  As kids become more aware of cultural rituals and rules, it is curious to see how they mix and match the ideas, sometimes following the rules sometimes making up their own. This is the game I play with myself as I watch them, trying to notice my own indoctrination through their obvious lack of it.

Which brings me to an anecdote from our annual family vacation. I am not “out” as poly to my family and many of my friends. My mother is a pastor and I live in a hoity-toity part of the Bible Belt. It’s not fair that my young children should be ostracized for choices they didn't make if it’s within my control. My children are young and do not yet have direct knowledge of my relationships outside the home.

On vacation we’re all sitting around in the living room of a rented space, watching my two children (boy and girl) and my brother’s two kids (also a boy and a girl) play. My daughter (the oldest) decides they should all “get married”. A relatively routine game for children, still navigating the complicated ocean of relationships. What girl didn't plan out her wedding day at least a few hundred times.? (Sigh. Also, cultural conditioning.)

But in the kids’ imaginary game, who’s going to marry whom? Well, we wouldn't want any feelings to be hurt. So, my daughter decides (with absolutely no input from me) that they will all get married together. She will marry both boys, in one ceremony. And her girl cousin will marry both boys in another. (I’m also loving the female patriarch implied here!)

What was incredible to me was how all of the other kids went along with this idea without batting an eye. Makes perfect sense, we all want to live together and be happy, so we’ll get married the way our grown-ups do. Of course the ceremonies were elaborate (and expensive!) And she got to walk her two “men” down the aisle.  Flowers, veils … we spared no expense.

Fortunately for me, no one noticed this social faux pas. Except my husband, who bore holes into me with his eyes from across the room.

Another glaringly obvious “rule” of the game was that only the girls could marry boys. Girls marrying girls, or boys with boys, wasn't suggested. An example of mixing and matching the rules, and also, I think, far too little exposure to gay culture (not by choice, by circumstance).

The "rules" of culture are not always so straight forward. Sometimes you don't even realize what you're doing until you meet someone (usually from a far away land) who does it differently. And, on occasion, cultural "rules" can be a positive thing, like positive peer pressure. But more importantly, it's being aware of the conditioning that makes a difference. This is what allows us to change course, should the time ever come when it's needed. And it allows us to be compassionate and tolerant of others, especially others with different cultural conditioning.

A challenge for all of us: be more aware of your conditioning as we move through our day.

The Freedom of Vulnerability

Long ago, on the schoolyard, we learned to hide what others might consider odd. Lest we commit the ultimate sin by letting them see us cry.

Being vulnerable means opening yourself up to ridicule. Knowing they can and they will, yet still wearing it proud. The downside: the horrible shame and humiliation you feel when someone disapproves of your core self. The self you really are, no masks, no deceit, everything completely laid bare.

The upside (and, yes, there is one): when your core self is revealed, with its obvious weaknesses and unattractiveness, and you are accepted anyway. It's the most amazing feeling a human can experience.

And vulnerability in romantic relationships … well, that is an entirely new level of hurt. Is the risk worth the reward?

Only when I finally let myself be truly vulnerable to others was I really free to be myself. I didn't have to fret about being caught with my guard down. What will so-and-so think about my such-and-such? What a breath of fresh air to be really free from ridicule. That's not to say I wasn't or won't be ridiculed. That people won't disagree with me. (I hope they do. What a boring world it would be otherwise!) 

Being disapproved of by others can be painful. We have a built-in evolutionary need to feel accepted by our peers. In order to minimize our hurt we develop defense mechanisms. We (1) avoid relationships as much as possible, (2) adopt a mask, which hides the core self, or (3) build sturdy fences (or sometimes walls) around the relationship making it theoretically impossible to be hurt by one's partner.

What makes ridicule so powerful, so penetrative, is that others illuminate the very things we are trying to hide. That I have a crappy job, I look silly when I dance, I cringe when I hear my father’s voice, or that my body bulges in unattractive ways.

A truly vulnerable person looks at her own weaknesses and opens them up voluntarily. Maybe this is along the same lines as comedians who make fun of themselves? "I'm not fat. I'm fluffy." Who can really make fun of us when we’re already laughing?

Some people feel this sense of vulnerability more than others. And the greater the chance of pain, the more defense mechanisms, fences, walls, and dark, dank dungeons we feel to be necessary.

As a teen, and even in my early adult years, I was terrified of being "revealed" to disapproving eyes. It didn't really matter what my supposed offense might be. The thought of being unacceptable to others, especially peers and potential partners, drove me to hide behind a mask of rigid toughness. Still, somewhere in my private fantasy world, I was looking for that safe relationship where I could reveal myself in totality and be completely accepted.

For many years I was told and believed that I could find this "total acceptance" in a relationship with "god". This of course was little more than my imagination playing with itself. Even grownups can find comfort in imaginary, I guess.

Of course, the answer is always the most obvious and the most complicated. I had to accept myself. I had to ultimately not care what others thought of me, while still caring, lest I be lost to cynicism. I had to know my place, and love my place.

Being vulnerable is the single-most quality that has opened up my life. For the first time I am available. Available, open, and able to confidently address whatever comes my way.

After being married (and mono) for almost ten years, I began a new relationship. It was a whole new experience of vulnerability. Dating in my early twenties was a game of masks (not Thrones, sorry), always being more savvy than the next potential partner. Keeping my secret love of all things nerdy, and my total lack of sexual experience completely hidden.

Even after marrying, it was a long struggle to bring down walls. And I don't think I truly accomplished that until recently, becoming poly, and letting the last hidden piece of myself be revealed. At the time, I didn't know how it would work out. I told my hubby I was in love with someone else (too). And it certainly wasn't a walk in the park for him. But ultimately, he chose to accept me, all of me. And I have never felt so loved by him as I did that day. And every day after …

Being vulnerable in my new relationship was a whole other thing. I'm not a shallow teenager anymore. I like to think that I've matured beyond playing the boyfriend trophy game. This was going to be something really different. Dating as a grown-up ... hmmm ... a post for another day?

For this new relationship, I wanted to be entirely myself, entirely vulnerable, from the start. If I couldn't do that, then the relationship would be a real waste of my time. But it wasn't as easy as I thought. I mean, being completely vulnerable to a new person is scary. Rejection, even if it's only in the form of a blank stare, hurts, especially if it's someone whose opinion means something.

What a lucky dumbfuck I am! TheTotalPackage (his choice of name, btw) turned out to be the most amazing, understanding human being I could have hoped for. But, fuck, it was scary. I must have made a total fool of myself trying not to be so shy and stupid, but also not put a false front.

All those lofty defenses I'd erected early in life were awfully tiring and only got me further away from where I wanted to be. Being loved for the picture of perfection I wish I was just left me feeling dissatisfied in the end.

Here is your own personal invitation to open up your vulnerable self to people. Start by opening up to just one. But make sure it’s really your whole self, no hiding the parts you don't like. See how it feels. Don't let someone's bad mood or lack of tact put you off. It's okay if you get rejected or meet blank stares. It won't kill you, and you are headed toward a lofty goal.

My "Favorite" Bible Stories: #1 The Good Samaritan

I'd like to begin irregular installments of my "favorite" bible stories and lessons as they were indoctrinated to me in my childhood. As my good friend, a token gay church attendee, B-Gizzle says, "Everyone likes a good story. Right?" The purpose to is see a reverse side to the incredibly asinine teaching found in the holy scripture. But, as with everything else, they will arrive at my leisure or inspiration.

The Good Samaritan (Luke 10:25-27)

In this backwards parable (a story meant to teach a lesson, but usually doing a piss-poor job of it), a religious "expert" asks Jesus the secret to life eternal. Jews of course don't believe in heaven or the afterlife. This "expert" was referring to literal eternal life, AKA the Fountain of Life. Or, he was being incredibly sarcastic, because Jesus was preaching about heaven and the afterlife. I haven't personally decided which interpretation I like best.

Jesus asks him his personal interpretation of Moses's Law and tells him by following this he will "live". Eternally? Well, he doesn't really say that. Thereby, cryptically, not really answering his question. This is not so bad in itself. It reminds me of the koans used by zen masters, not really answering the student's question directly. The idea is for the student to experience reality/enlightenment for him/herself.

The "expert's" answer to Jesus is a phenomenally G-rated version of Jewish canonical law: love God and love your neighbor. Volumes could be written about the how most of the Old Testament completely contradicts these pious goals. But we'll go with this answer for now. It's his opinion, which he's entitled to. And it was an insightful answer, even if it's incorrect.

Next, the religious "expert" asks: who is my neighbor? I can't help but think Mr. Rogers would agree that a quick reading of the text would lead any (uneducated) person to believe that "neighbor" means "any one who's not you", pisshead! Is it really that difficult? It's like Taco Bell burrito brain surgery (when I wait eons in my car while they surgically construct my fuckin' burrito). But then, Jews have always been sticklers for semantics (no pun intended, but that's still pretty funny).

To explain the very simple concept of loving everyone, Jesus tells the story of The Good Samaritan. Some dude gets raped and pillaged and left by the side of the road. Who's gonna help him? A priest and a pious Jew pass by the troubled soul. Jesus doesn't say why, but I really think he should have. Did they not see him? Did they not have time? Is it like when you pass by the homeless guy, trying not to make eye contact? I think the majority of people can tell the difference between a panhandler and a guy who's just been violently attacked to the point where he can't go somewhere for help on his own.

Back in the day, Samaritans were to Jews what Mexican drug smugglers, pro-lifers, and lesbian sluts are to the Tea Party. That is to say, a dirty excuse for humanity. So, of course, in Jesus's story, the dirty, rotten, cuckold Samaritan is the one to help the severely beaten man. Whom, in his right Jewish mind, probably would have rather died than be saved by the scoundrel. In fact, Jewish law probably dictates that after such an encounter the recovering victim must be cleansed in the mikveh (ritual bath) with the niddahs (menstruating women). At least Jesus didn't have a niddah rescue the stranger. I don't think there are enough mikvehs in the universe to cleanse him from that!

Which one was a neighbor to the helpless man? The Samaritan, obviously. The priest and the religious man were not neighbors. So, back to the original question: who is my neighbor? The Samaritan, again. And, to bring the lesson full circle, in order to gain eternal life, I am to love my neighbor -- the dirty, worthless human being with a heart of gold -- and not the religious hypocrites. I mean, those two assholes weren't neighborly according to Jesus, right? So, whom am I to love (according to the Bible)? Answer: Only whomever loves me.

This Bible story, which supposedly teaches followers to love people who are different from themselves, is really telling us that we only have to love the people who are good to us. More specifically, people who rescue us in our dire need. That takes my love quotient for humanity down quite a bit. It also explains why religious bigots can guiltlessly blow up abortion clinics and slut shame anyone who doesn't fit the mono-ideal. 

Ah, I finally understand!