Four Weeks (More or Less) to a Whole New Me

I've had a hard couple of years. As a result, for awhile, I found myself uncharacteristically drawn to books and articles promising me "a whole new me." That sounded pretty good. The old me had been really boring me with a history, behaviors and habits I've seen over and over again. And I hadn't been really happy. I wanted a new me. And I wanted her to be happy.

At the beginning of my little odyssey, before I really knew I was looking around for a new me, I'd been reading about Buddhism, and listening to some darmha tapes from a Zen master near my house in the mountains. I liked them. I liked him. There's something inherently right about Buddhism, though not necessarily a pick-me-up. Buddhism teaches that we embrace impermanence, egolessness (the fact that we're not all that), and the reality of pain and suffering. There is no arguing this information. It is all quite true, and, I imagine useful if you go deeply enough into it. So, I began. But, it takes time. A lot of time. And I needed a new me now. Plus, I was feeling sad, downhearted, and blue - how was learning that everything dies, none of the good stuff ever stays the same, I am next to nobody in the world, and that I might as well get used to my pain, going to help me right this very second? I needed something more accessible, more like drive-thru therapy, more like Dr. Phil.

I got a book. Sad Women and the Men Who Hate Them and the 8 Ways to Freedom from Depression on Mars, and 24 Hour Diet Plan. Or something like that. I began in earnest to do step one: Start With Today!, more perfectly than any human being had ever done it. I made a list of all the things from the past that haunt me, or hold me back, and I made a list of all the things I worry about happening in the future. Then, as instructed, I read them aloud to a trusted friend, and burned them in a ceremonial pit, or in my case, a never-cleaned, greasy black Hibachi. Past gone; present unknowable. Done deal.

Step one out of the way, I began step two: Who Are You Really? That same afternoon. I made a collage, using magazine photos and poster board, of pictures, words, and articles that "felt" like me. At the end I had over-laid everything from an elephant, to a poem by Allen Ginsberg, to a naked woman with two near grown children hanging by their mouths from her elongated breasts. (I have mostly National Geographic and literary magazines.) I pondered the picture, meditated as directed, and realized that I was a vast collection of complex and wonderful things; and, more importantly, I was a part of an even greater, and more wonderful universe full of people as fascinating as me, some with breasts as long as my garden hose. Me small, universe big. Gotcha.

I skipped step 3. It was one of those stand naked in front of the mirror and learn to love yourself as you are type things. I don't do that.

Step four: Life As It Is! was the final lesson. I did it that same night. 4 weeks, 8 weeks, 12 steps, 28 days except during leap year, whatever. I've always been a fast learner. Step 4 required that I write my name in the center of a large piece of paper and draw a circle around it. Then I was to draw several concentric circles around the original circle until the page was full. Inside the small circle with my name, I was to write down the names of people, places, and things that were most near and dear to me. In the next circle I was to write down the names of people, places and things that made me happy, that I looked forward to, that were fun, and life affirming. I was supposed to keep doing this with the circles, their meaningfulness declining further and further, until I got to the last circle where I guess I didn't need to care at all about the people or things I put in there.

Mine had things like: Saran Wrap, Madge the Palmolive lady, Gummy Bears, and poop. At the end of it all, I was supposed to look at the circle, and imagine the outer circle disappearing. Easy. I could live without Madge, or poop. Then I was supposed to imagine the next circle disappearing. A little harder. I had to visualize life without aloe Kleenex, and Wynonna Judd. This little journey kept going until I had to imagine the world without the people and things in my inner circle, including myself. Then I was supposed to find a dime and put it on the floor, representing the circle I just annihilated. The directions were to get down on my knees and look at it, then stand up and look at it, then get on a chair and look at it, and, if possible, get on the roof and look at it. My circle, the lesson taught, in fact, my world and my life, was small. Then I was supposed to scatter a handful of as many coins as I could around my pitiful dime. Not only was my circle small, my pain unavoidable, and my power to control it nil, but this pain and anguish was happening to everybody! It was part of the big plan! ( But why, I wondered, did some people got be quarters and fifty-cent pieces and I only got to be a dime?)

That night, thinking back over my lesson, I reaized it was really Buddhism in a nutshell. It was just a lesson on impermanence, egolessness, and the reality of pain and suffering on a stick, and dipped in chocolate and sprinkles if you wanted. I didn't really feel any better.

The next day, I was meditating and learning to "stay with myself" (which is really hard because you can't believe the amount of times I've had to listen to myself tell that same story about Aunt Edna and the time she went to the gynecologist and he found a roll of stamps in her "cookie", because she had gone to the ladies room beforehand to "tidy up" and they were out of toilet paper, so she had, apparently, reached into her purse and pulled out and used a Kleenex that was inconveniently attached to a quarter roll of stamps.)

I'm always frustrated in meditation, because I want something. I want some information to descend upon me that will make me feel better about my sadnesses. Then it occurred to me. That would be wrong. What if I didn't feel bad about my separation from my beloved sister, what if I didn't miss my niece and nephew with a longing I have never known existed, what if I was blasé about the death of my beloved dog of 17 years? Would that be good? What kind of person would I be? People with feelings feel. That's the fact. There is no whole new me. There is just me. I am sad when there is sadness. I am happy when there is happiness. I think the trick is to make more happiness.

And I would be happier if I had been the fifty-cent piece.