Parting Glances
It's always a transcendental pleasure to report about uplifting talks, lectures, sermons, 90-minute Power Point presentations I'm frequently asked to cover because, somewhat curiously, no one else wants to at BTL.
As a writer for an alternative weekly of such spiritual high standing – consider uplifting examples "Dear Jody" and "Creep of the Week" – I feel it's almost a patriotic duty to keep my dedicated PG readers informed.
I twenty-one gun salute all six of you!
I recently had – to use an expression in currency among zealous segments of our world's beleaguered populace – a truly blessed day. (Please don't misunderstand: a sexual encounter is not herewith implied. Although I frequently do pray for same. Daily, I might add.)
I was in Ann Arbor. (I often go there on pilgrimage because the climate of youthful, carefree beauty and symmetry – the passing show of freshmen, sophs, seniors parading in breathtaking summer attire – is spiritually invigorating, so thought-provoking for one my age. And frustrating, I'll also readily admit.)
I had a New Age – satori, nirvana, Zen, sound-of-one-hand-clapping – encounter with a MtFB (male to female to bisexual). A self-styled "gururess" by the name of Mary Martin Muktananda. She was sitting feeding a dozen multi-plumed pigeons in an off the main-drag park, no pun intended. Our spiritual gaydar instantly clicked.
"Welcome, Spiritual Traveler on Life's Rainbow journey," she greets me, as pigeons take flight, circle her head in halo effect, and vanish in the twinkling of a mascara'd eye. "Being gay's not a choice," she beams a devastating Shinto, ancestor-worship smile my way. "Tolerating pigeons is. I hope you know the difference."
Acrobatic pigeons annoy me; but I know if I stick around for simulated pearls of wisdom I may be enlightened or entertained. "Do you come here often?" I ask, using a conversational ploy that's worked thousands of times in sequestered city parks not unlike the one I happened to find myself in.
"I make a practice of being here noon to five, Mondays through TGIFs. (Thank-Guru-It's-Fridays!) And Saturdays and Sundays at the crowded, clamoring market I sell patchouli incense and semi-chaste devotional pictures of bilocating saints saving photogenic rock stars and holy-named divas.
"I also provide stimulating hugs, acupuncture tune-up tummy rubs, and memorable, OM-laced mantras for materialistic dollar donations. I sense you're into the Arts. Do you frequent dance establishments for one-on-one retinal clarification? Are your chakras atuned with your aesthetic libido? Lap dancing does wonders for living fully in the present, if sometimes it comes at the expense of living in the past."
"Actually I dabble. I draw intricate, convoluted designs and write intricate, convoluted sentences for intricately convoluted readers. I'm probably an Old Soul. By default, not by choice. If you know what I mean?"
"Oh, yes! A senior citizen. Here's my advice for everyone over 35, that traditional Dark Night of the Soul. 'Life gives us religions. Thank heaven we can choose our sins.' 'Society gives us restrictions. It's up to us to enjoy our reservations.' (Knowing a good gay head waiter helps.)
"Yes! I suspect you've had many interesting past lifetimes. Been between a rock and a hard place often. Been at sixes or sevens in your cosmic countdown. Had a time of it making both ends meet. Truth is – speaking reincarnation wise – that sometimes we're at top, sometimes we're at bottom. The difference between the two is often not hard to measure."
"Here's a dollar for advice. Make it succinct," I request. "Quite so," oooms Swami Mary Martin Muktananda, as cooing pigeons suddenly reappear out of nowhere. "Save brain energy. Don't think. Turn the other cheek before you reluctantly go amiss or just plain peter out. Change underwear daily from here on in."
