Moon, You are Huge! My Favorite Inspirational Moments

I don’t know if y’all are noticing this, but it seems like life just keeps speeding up and getting stranger and stranger, more and more connected, more and more intensely entangled. Perhaps it’s simply the centrifugal force of the paradigm shift of 2012 picking up energy and sucking us in to the inevitable Something Else. To the end of the world, or to the beginning of what some visionaries call The Great Turning. Being a bit of an intuitive retard, I’m not sure what’s going on. But I can feel something happening.

Or perhaps it’s a personal experience that I, with the charming narcissism so prevalent in my generation, am assuming has global resonance. Whatevs, as my Generation Y roommate would say. I’m just really excited to tell you guys about one of my recent Top Favorite Spiritual Moments, cause it was so so awesome and I think, if I tell it right, you are gonna dig it.

It’s a beautiful evening in early fall. Just past midnight or so. Earlier, an unfairly huge juicy orange moon has risen up through the sky, threatening to take all of Colorado prisoner with its mysterious looming beauty. Now, although slightly less mysterious, it’s still hanging out, basking in its own perfection, like, “Hey. Yeah. I’m the Freakin’ MOON, fool. What you lookin’ at?”

The air is crisp, clean, cool but not cold. I’m sitting on the balcony of my townhouse, looking out onto the mellifluous night and the quiet street below, free of cars for the moment. The night is hushed, waiting, lurking with hidden potential, and I am one with this night. I am in an unusual state of mind, or rather, occupying an unusual state of being—one that comes to me every now and then.

This state has something to do with meditation, something to do with clearing my consciousness of the Business as Usual Ellen Nonsense that tends to go on. For a moment, sometimes many moments in a row, I am free of my story. True, I have done terrible things. I have also done good things. I have made horrendous mistakes and probably am making more as I speak. (Did I mention that earlier I blew off writing my class syllabus so I could watch VH-1’s 100 Greatest Songs of the 00’s? Yeah, I know. But look, does my class really need to know what we’re going to do in this workshop as much as I need to know the back story behind Kellis’s 2003 “My Milkshake Brings All the Boys to the Yard”?)

But somehow, in this particular state of being, none of this matters.

Nature, we are told, abhors a vacuum. Into the temporary vacuum of my non-judgment, all kinds of strong emotion pour in. I feel myself filling up with something huge, warm, and spacious, something that runs through the center of my chest like bourbon, only better. I look at the moon with awe, and remember another Giant Moon: Athens, Greece, 1987. I am on a European vacation with my art class and Bob, who is from Germany, looks up at the spectacular moon looming immediately over our heads and lifts his drink to it, “Moon! You are Yoooge! (translation: “Huge!”) For those of us present, this becomes a favorite toast for years.

As I sit on my balcony, here, in 2011, I am filled with love for that moon of 1987, for the people who were there with me, people who tonight are grownups scattered all over the world, grownups writing checks for mortgages and begging their children to do their homework. I am full of love for their houses and their children and for this moon, the moon that floats gently above us all.

Actually, to tell the truth, I am full of love in general. Wow. Where did all this come from? For just this moment I can look on everything around me with astonishment and wonder—all surrounding objects have dropped their ordinary pretense of “hey, yeah, so I’m a tree—big deal.” Instead, they shimmer with clarity and possibility and intention, with the power of something ELSE no longer hidden. I look and feel more love. Then more love. My love rises up to meet that love and becomes more than that. I am overwhelmed with love, and I must tell someone.

“I love you!” I whisper to the trees, to the moon. “Oh, I love you! I love you!” I whisper to the night, to the planet, to the Universe. I feel all of us—me, the trees, the moon, the night, my old friends, Bob, the children and their homework—all of us pulsing together as one fluid heartbeat: “I love you! I love you! I love you!”

At this exact moment, a lone car shoots past on the street below. A man is yelling at someone on a cell phone, his window open. “I hate you, you f*****g bitch!”

I love this. It is perfect. I love this man for providing the perfect point of contrast to all this love—and for allowing me to observe that this love is large enough to include the man and his anger and obscenities. I love that the Universe brought us together at this precise intersection of each of our emotional lives. “I love you too, you f*****g a**hole!” I say to the man, now long gone down the street. “I love you! I love you! Thank you! I hope you and your girl make up!”

I’m pretty sure they made up. After all, there’s a lot of love available, some of it from sources you would not expect.

Summertime, Spirituality, and Tanorexia

Greetings, Superfriends! How is this beautiful summertime treating you?

I want to apologize for my long absence from this blog. Terrible things have come into my life since last we were together. There’s nothing worse than when you make a bunch of plans to create things and have success and get people excited and then THOSE THINGS COME TRUE. I’m just saying, I had WAAAY more time to blog when the only other competition for my attention was my next spiritual webinar(love you Vishen Lakhiani!) or MTV’s Jersey Shore.

And speaking of Jersey Shore, it’s probably just as well that I don’t have too much time to watch it because it really exacerbates my condition. As those of you who have known me since high school or college are aware, summer is tough for me because I suffer from extreme Tanorexia.

For those of you not familiar with this condition, let me explain. We who suffer from this debilitating disease report being swept by frequent feelings of “not tan enough.” This condition affects its victims on spiritual as well as emotional and physical levels, and is especially dangerous for those of us who came of age during the heyday of Baywatch.

Oh, sure, for a while, you can distract yourself with new clothes or adorable fuzzy animals or addressing your friend’s latest obsessive outrage (I have a friend who has an infinite capacity for outrage and she really keeps me busy). You can even choose to meditate on the Divine Love whose purple velvety majesty keeps this Universe expanding into ever greater dimensions.

And it works. For a while. And then you see Pauly and Vinny and Snookie and you look down at your slightly graying white legs poking out of your slightly graying white shorts and the compulsion rears its ugly head: “GTL! GTL! GTL!” (that’s “Gym, Tan, Laundry” for those uninitiated in the pleasures of Jersey Shore).

I have another friend who pointed out that I am forty-one years old and maybe it’s time I moved on to more mature obsessive compulsions. And I do my best. The reason I haven’t been writing for this blog for such a long time is that I am now writing for three others which actually have something to do with my getting paid and thus being able to support myself. I am actually becoming somewhat obsessed with supporting myself, which, believe me, is not an obsession that’s troubled me too much in this lifetime.

Mostly I like to be supported by others. First it was my family. Then it was my universities and the Ridiculously Generous Souls of the student loan system (three college degrees can buy a LOT of Nordstrom, Anthropologie, and DSW!). Then it was my former husband. Then I turned to Law of Attraction and learned that God and the Universe wanted to support me. So I decided to let God do that by allowing me to win the lottery. God told me to get a job and He/She would let me know about the lottery real soon.

Sigh.

Oh Well, as my dad would say.

My dad Matthew Melko Jr. died last summer at about this time. He was the ultimate Jersey Shore boy, having grown up spending his summers in Seaside Heights, where the show is filmed. I asked him once whether the Jersey Shore had changed much since his heyday in the fifties. And he said that although cultural norms had changed (back then you didn’t, for example, have sex with people in dance clubs as a matter of course), he was glad to see that Seaside and Jersey were just as tacky and pointless and strangely beautiful as ever.

Whether you are tan or not tan, whether you are on speaking terms with God and the Universe or not, whether you love the beach or the mountains or the mall, I salute you and wish you an amazing summer. It’s good to be back.

Outsource My Worry

So, I’m reading this great book by a simmering wunderkind genius named Timothy Ferris. It’s called The 4-Hour Workweek: Escape 9-5, Live Anywhere, and Join the New Rich.

I know. Right. Right? But doesn’t that title kinda make you salivate, just a little bit? Or, perhaps, depending on your current relationship with your work and your finances, it kinda makes you long to collapse in your recliner with annoyance and a bag of Skittles. Or maybe, if you’re feeling extra discouraged, it awakens a desire to go ahead and get your medical marijuana card. After all, you’ve put at least four hours of work into avoiding your work already this week. Must there be more? These damn kids today. . .

A provocative disclaimer shouts from the top of the back jacket cover: “WARNING: DO NOT READ THIS BOOK UNLESS YOU WANT TO QUIT YOUR JOB”

As my friend Olga would say, “Indeed.”

I won’t go into all the surprisingly wise and practical suggestions this book offers right now. Because that would require my doing the actual work of analyzing and condensing for you. And frankly, well, I think there’s a new episode of Family Guy available online. Also, I have to consider the best possible giant fuzzy boots for fall.

But I do want to touch on a brilliant concept from Ferris’s chapter on “Outsourcing Life: Off-Loading the Rest and a Taste of Geoarbitrage.” (I’m afraid I simply do not have the resources at the present time to explain this last term, else I get lost down a rabbit hole of my own giant fuzzy economic ignorance).

Ferris, a passionate advocate of personal outsourcing, cleverly outsources this chapter itself to another writer, AJ Jacobs, editor-at-large at Esquire magazine. Jacobs, in turn, explains how he was influenced by another Outsourcing Opus, the best-selling The World is Flat by Thomas Friedman, to outsource low-end tasks of his own life. Paying bills, changing wireless services, finding his son a Tickle Me Elmo, apologizing to his wife, that sort of thing.

Delighted by his new Bangalore virtual personal assistant (pleasingly named Honey K. Balani), Jacobs decides to outsource his worry:

“For the last few weeks I’ve been tearing my hair out because a business deal is taking far too long to close. I asked Honey if she would be interested in tearing her hair out in my stead. Just for a few minutes a day. She thought it was a wonderful idea. ‘I will worry about this every day,’ she wrote. ‘Do not worry.’

“This outsourcing of my neuroses was one of the most successful experiments of the month. Every time I started to ruminate, I’d remind myself that Honey was already on the case, and I’d relax. No joke—this alone was worth it.” (Ferris, p.118)

AJ Jacobs you mad genius. I love this idea. More than anything else in life, I would vastly enjoy having Less Worry.

Seriously. I mean, sure, I want more money, more love, more freedom, more harmonious relationships, more shoes, more praise, more approval, more flowers flung by adoring fans as I walk, more of you admitting I am right and you are less right. . .

Yeah, pretty much more of everything.

And I’m a recovering junkie, so this is normal. We addicts definitely love our “More.” We love our More more than just about anything. But I don’t think we’re alone in this feeling. . . I think most of us desire. . .more. I think that’s just part of our design, part of how life evolves and unfolds, and “More,” while not necessarily “better,” isn’t necessarily bad.

But less?

Oh, in this case. Yes Oh Yes Oh Yes Oh Yes. Give me less worry. I am dying to outsource my worry! I am so excited to try this. But I don’t yet have a virtual assistant, in Bangalore or anywhere else?

Who should I ask?

Should I ask different people to worry about different aspects of my life? It doesn’t seem fair to load any one person down with all my shit. I am a skilled and gifted worrier—in fact, worrying is one of my most spectacular character assets.

I am also a very quiet worrier—don’t tend to share my worries out loud—so others, in general, don’t have to be disturbed by my worry until I begin to act out in totally unexpected and psychotic ways. Which is lots of fun for everyone involved.

Maybe I should offer to exchange worries with someone? If any of you would like to swap brooding obsessions, please let me know. One thing about my worries is that while the item in question may change, the general subject matter stays tediously consistent.

I have to worry about this a little more and then I’ll let you know. See you next week.

Much Love to All,

Ellen

Spiritual Paths, or My Friend Marcus Likes Porn

The occupational hazards of being me. So freaking stressful. Here’s a warning to anyone out there who’s considering becoming one of those super-positive people. Or a guru. Or a life coach. Or any of that crap. Let me tell you, from my own experience, that once you start telling people they can be, do, or have anything they want, those people will start to bug the shit out of you about how to do it.

Now, that’s not really how I get down. I know that you can, in fact, be, do, or have. Isn’t that enough for you? Now I’m supposed to explain how that’s going to happen? As my virtual friend Allie (author of the greatest blog in the world, hyperboleandahalf.com) would say, “What am I, some kind of wizard?”

So I’m talking to my friend Marcus about how we are completely unlimited in our choices. Life in this realm, I have discovered—well, it’s pretty much just one big expanding holodeck. And if you don’t know what a holodeck is, then shame on you for neglecting your responsibilities—why didn’t you spend your youth smoking pot and watching Star Trek Next Generation?

In essence, we live in a world that is continually shaped by our beliefs. You may not believe this, in which case, your experiences will confirm that belief too. The universe really doesn’t mind if you choose to believe that your thoughts have absolutely nothing to do with the world that takes shape around you.

That’s why you gotta love the universe. It’s always like, “No problem. We can do that. Here’s your completely random grab bag of mixed unrelated events. Have a nice day!”

One of my core beliefs is that I have to work hard in order to make money. Somehow, money doesn’t seem very acceptable to me unless I am, on some level, earning it (usually in pitiful quantities) through my patient suffering. As it happens, I am an excellent patient sufferer. No one can suffer quietly as loudly and elegantly as I can.

So I’m talking to my friend Marcus about how I’m done with this nonsense. “From now on,” I tell him, “I want to lie in a hammock and make money.”

“How are you going to make money in a hammock?” He asks.

“The people will come to me.” I say. “I will lie in my hammock and the people will come. They will ask questions. I will dispense wisdom. Then they will weep with heartfelt gratitude, shower me with golden coins, and leave to go make improvements in their lives. Meanwhile, I will remain in my hammock.”

“I want to make money in a hammock,” Marcus says.

“You will lie next to me. In your own hammock. You can help me dispense wisdom.”

“I really want a flat screen television,” Marcus says, “If I’m going to be lying around in a hammock. And probably a lot of porn. Is that going to interfere with your dispensing of wisdom?”

“Ummm, no. I guess that’s okay. Can it just be mostly mainstream porn? I feel that the people might be distracted by a lot of transvestites. Or anal.”

“How much money do you think I can earn each day lying in a hammock watching porn?”

I think about this for a moment. “Hmmmm. I honestly don’t know. Will you be masturbating?” He gives me a look. “Okay, so that’s a yes. Well, I will pay you one thousand dollars a day to lie in a hammock next to mine, watching porn on your flat screen t.v. and, doing, you know, what feels right to you. This will be good for the people. You’ll be helping them out spiritually, big time.”

“How’s that?”

“I will tell the people: ‘Behold, look upon this man and see how free you truly are. For he imagined a life in which he watched pornography from a hammock, and got paid to enjoy it, and lo, it has come to pass. Think of this man when next you complain of your limited options, your meager talents. For who among you dared to dream like this man—this man of no discernible skills or abilities whatsoever—and still, he is nurtured by Divine Source. Still, he gets to live his dream.’ And the people will look upon you and realize that it is true.”

I’ll let you guys know once me and Marcus get our set-up. In the meantime, feel free to imagine and claim your own freaky goodness—even if it in no way resembles what other people perceive as good. I used to have a roommate who collected porcelain baby angel naked cupid dolls. I believe she even belonged to a club that sent a new one every month. This did not make sense to me. But it made sense to her.

The Source of All Things delights in our differences. So really, it is your spiritual responsibility to get out there and get started watching porn. Or Star Trek. Or baby angel naked cupid dolls. I can’t tell you what to choose. But I can tell you that your perfect unique choice makes the universe expand. . .

Thanks for all the kind emails. I'm glad to be back. See y'all soon.

Spiritual Challenges (aka "Other People")

Wow, You Guys.

It's so amazing to write stuff, put it out there, and then have people WRITE BACK.

So, thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Got some great questions/comments coming in from you folks. I will do my best to reply.

Jen from Colorado writes:


"Dear Ellen,

I believe it's important to love everyone, and I'm working hard on approaching people and interacting with them with love (rather than judgment, or sarcasm, say, like I usually do). But what about when the person is a dick? Or a soul-sucker? Or passive-aggressive? Or just boring? What is my spiritual and moral obligation there?"


Dear Jen,

Ohhhhh, good question. I am dying to find out what I'm going to come up with, cause frankly, my initial answer is "Jen, hell if I know."

This is one that trips me up quite a bit. When I'm by myself, I can often get into a pretty good Ninja Zen Master Zone. . . an emotional energy field of love, acceptance, and curious, pleasure appreciation and anticipation.

Left alone to stew in my own meditational juices, I occasionally hit a plateau where it feels like nothing anybody says or does will ever bother me again.

I can feel how funny it is that I ever thought it mattered.

And this blissful state will last forever, because it is the truth, and I am ringing with it, gently, like a deep and happy bell. It will last into all realms of eternity, all reaches of time and space. . .

Except for the convergence of time and space where my boyfriend calls me up to tell me about the latest computer software he's coveting at Best Buy. . . but he really can't afford it. But he really wants it. But he can't really afford it. But what if he were to budget for it? Do I know how amazing this new technology is? Do I realize what he could do if he just went ahead and bought it anyway? Should he buy it anyway? Maybe he'll buy it and try it and then maybe take it back later.

I love him, but I am also longing to kick him to death.

What is my moral/spiritual obligation here?

What is the appropriate spiritual response to my neighbor, Carl, who's always coming over to chat in the middle of the day? He's a nice man, actually, basically a good guy.

But he also drinks with admirable dedication. He's got a beer in his hand pretty much every second he's conscious. And he's got a gift for long, surprisingly detailed (yet curiously vague) stories that take a lot of plot and character exposition. About things that happened thirty years ago, back when he was a hell-raisin' high-school youth. These kids today, it seems, don't know shit from shine-ola. I haven't told him yet that I would be hard-pressed to identify shine-ola myself. But, in any event, the important point is that things were different back then, back when people knew their ass from their elbow.

I get in this weird cycle of listening because I feel tuned in to his essential goodness, and also to his profound loneliness, but underneath my apparent empathy I'm starting to become quietly, deeply insane with boredom. I would rather be doing something else.

I wish I could say that that "something else" is my work, or meditating on the Divine, or actively engaging my creativity, but honestly, listening to Carl talk makes me long violently to be reading Us Weekly, or to be experimenting with parting my hair on the left side instead of the right.

I mean, spiritually speaking, how does this scenario fit in with offering love at all times?

And these are people I basically like.

What about people I don't like at all?

Reading Emmet Fox's The Sermon on the Mount, and came across this bit:

"People. . . have been under the erroneous impression that to forgive a person means you have to compel yourself to like him. Happily, this is by no means the case--we are not called to like anyone whom we do not find ourselves liking spontaneously, and, indeed it is quite impossible to like people to order. You can more like to order than you can hold the winds in your fist, and if you endeavor to coerce yourself into doing so, you will finish by disliking or hating the offender more than ever."

Thus speaketh Emmet, and I think he has a good point here. But is it truly possible to "love" someone that you don't really like? What does that feel like?

If anyone out there has direct experience of this phenomenon, please, please post a comment or email me at moreellen888@gmail.com.

Jen, I gotta think about this one some more. I'll check back with you guys next week.

Namaste. Or, as my friend Toby says, "Narcisste." Which means, "The narcissist in me judges and rejects the narcissist in you." Give it a try!