The Bee Plays Cupid: An Update

Hi everyone,

These past three days were the first indications, in what seems like ages, that Seattle has emerged from hibernation. The mountains, this area's treasure, have been found and uncovered. Their white coats are full and bright; the sparkle blinds my eyes. The flora plays at the mountains' feet: The trees wink hello, the flowers flirt back, the bees play cupid: their pollen is like fairy dust, spreading good cheer to all. Meanwhile, the blue canvas watches it all from above.

And I wore my beer and wine dress for the first time since last summer.

My beer and wine dress is gaining a reputation for picking up men, as I have already dated two guys after meeting them while wearing the dress. My ex-boyfriend was actually the one who gave the dress its name. He explained that there are two kinds of dresses: The first kind is a dress you could drink beer in; the other kind is one you could drink wine in. My dress, he said, is the kind you could wear drinking beer and wine both.

It turned out to be more of a beer dress on Sunday evening though. A girl in remission has gotta choose.

This dress is one of a kind. With a pink-red and white pattern of what look like daisies, cap sleeves, a narrow, plunging neckline, and an A-line skirt that touches my knees, it is surprisingly unique and simple. I feel sexy, comfortable and beautiful in it. Someday I hope to pattern my wedding dress after it.

I remember when I purchased the dress because it was the same day my bike was stolen, which was six days after I sold my car, nearly four years ago. Though this dress has never seen me own any form of transportation, it has traveled with me everywhere: to Florida, to Madison, to Austin and to St. Andrew's Abbey in Valyermo, California.

It was at the monastery where I met Brother Casanova, so I call him, in my beer and wine dress. It was my first time at the Abbey and I was nervous and unsure about how to act around the monks, for they intimidated me. At the time, the closest thing to high liturgy I had ever been to was a funeral in a Catholic church when I was 13-years-old - that and the church I was attending in 2009 did communion every week. Otherwise, I was a true outsider walking into the monastery, only uniquely identified by her beer and wine dress.

Wearing their all-black robes, the monks, I assumed, were too holy, too pious, and too off-limits for me. And then when you put all these men in the same room together, they formed an impenetrable sea of holiness. Or so it seemed. Not only that, but God surely must have given them bodies that magically cool down in order to withstand the desert temperatures and Lord knows I am intimidated by and jealous of amazing bodies. (How ironic that these guys didn't even have to show skin to fluster me.) Yet, the monks also spoke so articulately, and they sang so beautifully, and I sensed a real peace about their presence. I did not know how to interpret their big, white smiles, either. Surely there must be something I am missing. Because they were just too nice.

Brother Casanova was the the nicest of them all. He was 30-years-old, Italian, handsome, intelligent, passionate. During our first night in the desert, he told us about his journey to St. Andrew's. He told us that he had known from a young age that he was made for the monastic life. He held a job in Los Angeles that gave him summers off, so for many, many summers he traveled to the far ends of the earth looking for the right monastic community. He visited Catholic, Hindu and Buddhist communities, and each time he entered one he always asked, "Lord, is this where you want me?" By the end of each summer, however, he always left disappointed and still lost.

Back in L.A., a friend told him about the Abbey in the Mojave Desert, a little more than an hour from the city. So he went. He went for a weekend. He liked what he saw. He went for several more weekends. He still liked what he saw. Soon, he went for a few weeks at a time. And then a full summer. And, finally, he quit his job and entered the community full-time. "It was the first time I entered a monastic community and didn't ask, 'Lord, is this where you want me?'" Brother Casanova said.

Sometimes we have to enter life blind to end up seeing.

For the first day or two I was at the Abbey, I noticed Brother Casanova was staring at me. Like really staring at me. At meals, as we passed each other by, in the chapel, everywhere we saw each other, he just stared. Naturally, I assumed he was into me. The guy hadn't said his final vows and priests have been known to turn after meeting a beautiful woman. I entertained thoughts of him approaching the Abbot at the end of my week, confessing he was in love with me, him dramatically throwing his robe off, and the two of us running away from the Abbey together. It was all very romantic and beautiful and "The Graduate"-like in my head.

On the second day Brother Casanova was staring at me, I was wearing my beer and wine dress at the lunch buffet table and helping myself to seconds when he approached me. Perhaps he is here to confess his love to me, I thought to myself. His big blue eyes connected with mine. My heart stood still. He opened his mouth to speak.

"What nationality are you?"

"Oh...what...I...why?" I stammered.

"I have a friend back home who looks just like you, and you remind me of her."

Ah, yes, of course. That would be a more rational, logical reason to explain his behavior.

And all I could do was smile. Because Brother Casanova is just like us. Perhaps, I am just like him.

******

Five years ago today, I was just a 24-year-old girl-budding-woman who was afraid of the world. When I said this to a friend yesterday, she gasped. "I don't believe it," she said.

But it was true.

"I am highly functional, ambitious, driven," I said, "but I was deeply afraid of people and of feeling and of my body. I didn't take care of myself. I didn't know how - or even that I needed to support myself. Sure, I started young compared to most people. I was in counseling when I was 17-years-old and I started telling my story at 18. Maybe it was just the maturation process or maybe it was getting Lyme. Either way, I am a highly different woman than I was five years ago."

Lately, I have had friends verbally relate their feelings to me - you know, those feelings that you're either consciously or unconsciously feeling and thinking and even acting upon but just can't seem to admit to yourself, let alone others? And then when the person sitting across from you speaks the very thought or feeling, it's as if someone has filled in the moat, and the buildings have been torn down, and I can let my hair fall to the ground, and it is safe to climb out of the beautiful mess and walk out into the world. My friends' vulnerability invites me to do the same.

This journey of mine is constantly being tweaked and retweaked, so I am going to change my mind from my last post in September 2010. At that time, I thought this journey was about relearning how to feel. I was just three months into remission, I was still learning about how to re-enter the world, my mom was just diagnosed with a fatal illness and I was reeling from love lost. Nine months later, I have weathered a month when I thought I had relapsed (only to find out that I had gotten a sudden bout of yeast that mimicked the Lyme symptoms; this falls into the top 10 scariest experiences of my life); I have completed a collection of liturgies with a publishing house; I have been wooed by Austin, Texas; I have met God in the flesh in the form of a Hindi cab driver; I have sewed pillows with my mom; I have made some significant life decisions; I have discovered my third chakra; and I have wept over the estrangement of a family member. All this proves that I am certainly not relearning how to feel, but rather, acknowledging that I've been feeling all along.

When I acknowledge the flesh - when I acknowledge that I am cold, hot, achy, tired, grumpy, envious, annoyed, in love, in hate - I am truly and unmistakably my Self. I know this because I can feel adrenaline pumped through my body all the way down to my toes. I know this because I can lace special words into my sentences as often as I use articles. I know this because I will be sweating profusely after an intense writing session. I know this because I make eye contact and I know this by the number of people I spontaneously meet and I know this because I walk away feeling energized, also known as experiencing life.

I have always had life. But I have to keep telling myself this. Have to because there's very little, relatively speaking, in my life that's been terribly life-giving. From living with another family for a year due to my mother's illness, to the long abuse by a brother, to severe depression and attempted suicide, to back surgery, to chronic Lyme Disease, I have some serious attachment issues. I am not like Brother Casanova. I don't miss people. Well, there is one person I miss, and she lives in another city. Otherwise, I love people, I care for people, but I don't miss people.

I have to remind myself, however, that there is hope. The woman I miss? We were born in the same hospital on the same day just a few hours apart. To have been given a bosom sister, a lifelong friend, the sac in my mother's womb was surely filled with mercy. Apparently God knew that I would grow up feeling very, very alone, so He/She/It gave me a little of Him/Her/Itself in the flesh so that I would be reminded that I have never, ever been alone, even since the day of my birth.

There is more hope. I was given two years to play, to take adventures, to get to know my Self. I would never have carved out the space for that if Lyme hadn't weaseled its way into my life.

Still more: I am made to speak, and I thank God I have something to say and something others want to hear, too, because my story has inspired thousands of people and will probably continue to do so.

Last but not least, I have hope because - and I know I have already said this - I straight-out, undeniably, unapologetically feel: I feel desire. I feel disappointment. I feel frustration and I feel passion and I feel betrayal. I feel happiness. I feel regret. I feel fear. And I feel love. Even for my enemies, I feel so much love.

Five years ago today, I met Lyme Disease. One year ago tomorrow, I let her go. I miss her - not the illness per se - but the lessons I learned and the people I met and the places I went and the lifestyle I carried on while in recovery. If we have to let go of someone or something in order to feel the attachment, then suffering is worth it. Someone once asked (paraphrasing), "O death, where is thy sting?" If suffering must happen, let the bee play cupid! Let me be stung! Let the bee carry my brightness and attach it to another. Let the other's brightness attach to mine. And then make sweet, sticky honey that never goes bad and never lets us go.

A.