A minute of beevision

This is the second evening in a row I've sat next to Hive 1 and entered a languid dreamlike state. Last night it was so hot and yet overcast, 90 degrees at 6:30, what everyone likes to think of as earthquake weather. I got home from yoga completely wrung out, quickly changed my clothes, grabbed a beer and my book, and went out to sit by the hive, knowing the air would be filled with the intoxicating smell of beeswax and honey, the odor of the colony.

It's extremely atypical for me to do this particular combination of things: grab a beer and a book and sit at that hour of the day. But it was so rewarding. Staring at bees going in and out, though mostly in. Observing crows fly by high overhead as a family of quail (four chicks) wandered through the yard and up into an apple tree. Watching bees delight in the borage. Sipping the beer and reading. Alert and relaxed, almost inside the thrum of the bees.

And tonight again, same story, except this time there is also a party next door adding to the thrum. Joe is in it, I can hear him, his voice rising sometimes above the others as I sit by the hive, drinking water and staring, wishing I didn't have a headache but also perfectly content to be over here alone with Jasper and these thousands of little striped creatures going about their business. It's almost dark and they're still now hanging around on the threshold of the hive, cooling, some meticulously cleaning the stoop, others blowing in still with full loads of pollen.

Tomorrow mid-day we'll take a look inside, but right now, it's just so pleasing to observe them from this vantage point, not mucking about in their beautifully patterned orderly little world. So very sweet.

Migraines are a lie. Narcotics are the truth.

This weekend, I went to see a healer. Yes, a healer. He's the healer of my teacher's teacher and very well regarded in the yoga circle I move in, so I figured why not check it out. At first, I couldn't remember a single physical ailment that he could help me with, but then my friend Nancy reminded me about my migraines. Duh.

Of course, I could've just asked him to tune-up my chakras. But as below, I'm not so good at this.

When I took my turn, my thirty-minute appointment, I'll admit that my first and most dominant feeling was "I'm so bad at this." I don't really know what to do in these situations (need a How To for healers), what to ask for, what to expect, so I tried to keep an open mind throughout. Tried, I say, since I will admit that there were times my eyes would want to snap open so I could see what was transpiring and ask a bunch of questions. Instead, I did my best to quiet my mind and just go with it.

Definitely, something happened in that room. I was very rapidly in a relaxed state. He worked on my head, neck and shoulders, asked me questions like whether I was really ready to let go of the migraines. I had to think about my answer a bit. I was advised to stop sugar and alcohol for a while. Interesting.

Then I just laid there on the massage table, face up, for a while taking it in, integrating it as we say. After a while, I opened my eyes and tripped out on colors I was seeing on the ceiling. That's right, colors. Very pretty. On my way out the door, Scott said that thoughts would come more slowly now. Interesting.

It was all very gentle, very simple, very kind. Scott, the healer, is a lovely creature. Afterward, I sat out in the living room with Nancy and chatted quietly. I went home, had a huge allergy attack and stumbled through the rest of my day.

But through the haze, the thought arose: Migraines are a lie. Narcotics are the truth.

Interesting. I hate the migraines, but love the vicodin or percocet or whatever other narcotic I can get my hands on/prescription for, and am very quick to hit the drugs at the slightest hint of a migraine. It suddenly occurred to me that the real problem was not the migraines but the pills, sad since I do love them unabashedly. Also that I pretty much hate my job and that I've relied on some mental padding to get through the past year or so. Mental padding = pills, obviously, of one kind or another.

Maybe this doesn't mean anything to anyone but me, but honestly, it rocked me. It's true that since the appointment -- allergy-attack notwithstanding -- I've felt clear, easeful in my mind, no sign of anxiety or any other forehead-crunching. It's only been a few days, but honestly I do feel different. I give Scott credit and my thanks for that, and for unleashing this realization, one that I so deeply needed.

burn bright, burn steady, burn long

Today's news of Michael Jackson's death really spun me around. I drove home blasting the tribute mash-up on Kiss FM (and yes, crying), totally stunned by the number of amazing songs and the depth of my love for and attachment to each one. With Marianne, Heather, Jessica and others, haven't we spent joyful hours dancing and singing along to these songs? They never fail to make me happy.

He didn't have cancer. He wasn't sick that we knew of. He was about to start some intense show-schedule at age 50. I thought he'd be among us, unraveling in his dramatic fashion, for a long time to come.

It really got me to thinking about something Sarah said on the radio years ago about Angelina Jolie (and which I've clearly remembered all this time) -- something about how when Angelina was with Billy Bob Thornton, she "reached her freaky fruition," i.e., she managed to travel the entire arc of her innate freaky by a young age and blow it out, get it over with. At least that's how I interpreted what I heard.

With Michael Jackson, did we ever see such an arc of freaky? What was left? How much crazier could he get? Maybe, as Joe said, it's kind of a relief for him, having travelled his entire arc, to finally get to be done.

But still I think it's just sad. He really was a genius of pop. There are few things that make me so consistently happy as "I'll Be There" or "ABC," or that make me bust out a helpless happy Snoopy dance every time without fail, no matter where I am, like "Working Day and Night" or "Billie Jean." Just genius.

RIP to the King of Pop who burned too bright and too fast. I so look forward to the next opportunity to shake my body down to the ground.

Long live the King.

Replacing Ativan with Eckhart Tolle?

I've had the worst, most heinous insomnia since about November. It became totally impossible to sleep through the night. I'd wake up repeatedly from just horrible anxiety dreams then lay awake, tossing and turning over whatever list of worry was running incessantly through my mind. It was crazy. I actually dreaded going to bed at night, since it was just such utter torture.

I can break down the reasons for all this anxiety, but won't bore you with the litany here.

A couple of months ago I finally saw my doctor, just feeling at wit's end from not sleeping, and she prescribed Ativan for what she clearly saw as anxiety. I am delighted that that shit really works for me. A tab at bedtime and it's like I'm awake, then I'm dead, then I'm awake again. It might sound bad, but it is nothing but good, believe me. Deep, deathlike sleep kicks the ass of insomnia any day of the week.

But of course, I don't like the idea of swallowing pills and do admit that there's a nasty voice in my head constantly accusing me of weakness for needing to resort to prescription drugs to get through this rough patch (f*k that voice, seriously...). So I went without the Ativan last Saturday night, just to see what would happen.

And guess what: the anxiety is still there. Hasn't gone anywhere or resolved itself magically. So it was a rough night. I am fully cognizant that the pills are not a solution.

Then listening to Eckhart Tolle in the car on the way home tonight ("Practicing the Power of Now," and boy, do I really need reinforcement in that area), it struck me how freaking upside down my life has gotten lately: when I am conscious/awake, basically I'm moving through the day unconscious -- fast, on task, plowing through an endless To Do list, zigging from one thing to another without pause. When I am trying to be unconscious/asleep, I am actually conscious, replaying an endless awful tape of mental misery. How screwed up is that?

According to Tolle, becoming aware that you're not present in the present moment is the beginning of presence. I'm hoping that staying conscious in my waking hours will allow me to let go of the crap that keeps me awake at night, so that I can slowly wean myself off the meds and get a decent, normal night's sleep. I'll keep you posted.

The joy of reconnection

2009 is, for me, the year of connection, and specifically where my parents are concerned, the year of reconnection. Such a sweet reunion.