29. Have You Tried The Ho’Oponopono Prayer?
The Year of Paying Attention
As we settled into our Uber for the ride to Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, or Sea-Tac as it’s called, like a salty breath mint filled with wheeled luggage, Sarah asked, “You packed the food, right?” I think we can guess the answer to that question, can’t we? Would it change anything to know how proud I was to have thought to buy breakfast the day before, for the two of us to enjoy on our way to Southern California? Things didn’t improve when I confessed to panic-buying the right to check a bag which I did not need to check, but planned to carry onto the plane. “Forty dollars?!” Sarah yelped, as if I’d flushed the money down the toilet. Which, the woman behind the Spirit Airlines counter confirmed, I had. “You can call this number and ask about a refund, but they won’t give it to you,” she said in a consoling tone.
Why had I struggled to pass through my mother’s birth canal more than sixty-three years ago? Never mind I was a premature C-section. I’d mowed lawns and caddied for unpleasant golfers, and delivered a weekly newspaper. I earned an undergraduate degree, then attempted to teach writing and radio production to junior college students, some of whom had made it home alive from the Vietnam War. I’d moved to New York, where my spirit was crushed by the corporate leviathan, and where I’d grown accustomed to it, and found a woman who was willing to marry me, who bore me daughters, bright-eyed girls whose spirits I tried gamely not to destroy, for whom their parents paid a small fortune for a total of 34 years of private school education, all the while saving for retirement — and now this?
I’d broken my family’s hearts by divorcing, unless I’d made my ex-wife’s secret dream come true — no way of knowing that — had been entirely cut off from both children for eighteen months, reconciled with them, made my way into a cordial and sincere relationship with my ex-wife, had cancer surgery, gotten laid off — and now, sitting in an airport in the Pacific Northwest, having stuffed my face with a bagel which were not even astronomically overpriced by NYC standards, could I live with these latest failures? Leaving food behind in the rental apartment? Forking over dough for a pointless bag check? I could. It was time for another wedding. California, here I would come.
***
I knew my way around Santa Monica, having stayed in this part of LA as often as I could when I was in town for work, and when here I’d sometimes think — man, I could live here! Wear shapeless clothes, become even more self-absorbed, find amusement in the passing parade of colorful weirdoes, more plentiful and less menacing than their New York City counterparts. But now, in town for Paul and Phoebe’s wedding, I was not feeling it.
Sarah and I sat in a coffee shop called Bulletproof, where one can order coffee with butter in it. That’s right. On the floor near the register was a mysterious box, two feet square, six inches high, upon which first one and then another patron stood, I imagine practicing maintaining his or her balance. The box sounded like it might be vibrating. There was a clipboard holding the mandatory release anyone willing to get up on the box was required to sign, waiving the right to sue the place, or the box owner, or something, before one clambered up on it. I could not imagine this scenario ever happening in New York City.
I was still recovering from the previous night’s rehearsal dinner. Sarah’s sister Catherine had enjoyed some wine, and some more, and was seen, not long before her husband took her back to their hotel, sitting in the lap of a stunning, famous person named Sophia, near her handsome husband Joe, celebrity friends of the groom. Before she was whisked away, Catherine held me in an affectionate death grip, and suggested, once again, that I marry her sister Sarah, whom she loves so much, and who, she confided, had dated some pretty odd characters. She assured me that I was a great guy, and that everybody loved me, which wasn’t as reassuring as one might hope.
***
“What do you do?” Sarah asked Harry Handsome, who promptly confessed to being an actor, his sculpted arm cradling his gorgeous companion. “I was in Guardians of the Galaxy,” he said, explaining, “I was on and off the screen pretty quickly, but I was in it.”
To my surprise, I had a fine time at last night’s wedding, surrounded by a phalanx of lean men and svelte women groomed to near perfection. The groom’s musician friends flew in from Nashville to provide the music, and all in all it was relaxed and sweet and Sarah loves to dance. But this morning, the sun had barely risen and I was already feeling stupid, watching my Lyft drive away, leaving me momentarily stranded at the wrong address. I wondered if I would keep my mistake a secret from Sarah, so as not to humiliate myself.
On the drive over to this godforsaken spot, my driver told me about the drunk and abusive 21-year-old woman passenger who tried to steal his car while wearing no underwear, and who was subsequently tasered by the police. He described a sex and drugs party in a Beverly Hills mansion another passenger invited him to attend, which sort of freaked him out. He described how a third passenger, drunk and having gone home in error with a transvestite, wound up weeping and shoeless, in the very back seat I occupied. I commended him on his interesting job, and he apologized for having to take his next fare, instead of taking me where I meant to go.
Soon another Lyft showed up to drive me to the actual location of the 12-step meeting I was now late for. I crept in among the two dozen people sitting in silent meditation, found a chair, and felt a little calmer. A timer buzzed, and someone introduced the speaker, who described being a terrible drunk mother, and starting recovery, and working to set things straight. I could relate.
The people sitting in this funky little theater behind a coffee shop started to share. The guy who was using his phone to be the meeting timekeeper said he was currently separated, caring for two little daughters, and not expecting his marriage to survive. I could relate.
The next guy, with a posh British accent, described how he’d just taken an Uber to the wrong address, confusing east with west, which made him late to the meeting. I felt I was being reunited with a long lost brother.
A woman wondered about her natural tendency to feel blue. Another woman described how her mother taught her to pop a pill or take a drink when things were emotionally challenging. After the meeting ended I chatted with the timekeeper, who told me he’d made some progress in recovery, and then resumed drinking, and then resumed recovery. The woman who learned to drink and pop pills to feel better offered to teach me the Ho’Oponopono prayer, which she assured me had helped deliver her mentally ill brother to a more serene state, and which she’d been using with her aging mother, now in hospice.
She got teary describing her experience with the prayer, and her homeless brother living on the street. I thought: people in LA are crazy. Recovering alcoholics are crazy. People who believe some Hawaiian prayer can counter mental illness are crazy, and I’m going to definitely give that a try. Because sometimes I feel crazy. Sometimes my thinking makes me crazy. And when I feel crazy I want to blame somebody, myself or anybody, rather than just feel that uncomfortable feeling. I shared a Lyft with the Posh Brit back to Santa Monica, and noticed my daughter had unfriended me on Facebook. It was time to go home to New York.
Next week: Born Into Life To Love
