The Lodge of Life

It is 6:37 a.m. Monday morning. Jenn usually goes to our back bedroom for a few hours sleep, but this morning she was chased back to the bosom of her family by a cockroach--our first sighting of the season! I don't think I saw even one of the little buggers while I lived in Oregon, but was nauseatingly awakened last year by a little tickle on my skin. The cats had brought in a good sized roach as a gift for their lord and master, ans the poor, disgusting thing scurried across my arm looking for escape. Blech, exclamation point!

Segue #1: A number of years ago, from my desire to honor and learn about a number of religions of the world, I had a mini-Christian bible by my bed. There it gathered dust for a good 18 months until finally, in the deepest, darkest middle of the night, I felt inspired to open it up and read a few parables. I turned on the reading light, took a sip of water, and lifted the small chap bible to see what I might see. An absolutely enormous cockroach had got itself wedged between the bibles pages and was writhing its front legs at me. I dropped the book in horror, and saw it as a sign and got rid of the artifact the next day. The unfortunate image was, needless to say, seared into my brain. God and that wacky sense of humor again.

And speaking of God, just yesterday I rode my bike to REI to pick up a pair of shoes. When I exited the store with my purchase, the horseshoe lock securing my bike to the metal rack wouldn't open. I cursed, I pleaded, I cajoled, I exhorted the lock to open, but no amount of pulling, pushing, yanking, and tweeking of the key could get it to budge.

I'm a person who, if I don't get enough exercise, every other day or so, I start to climb the walls. I've been feeling dark of late, unable (or unwilling) to do my happy dance. I've been snippy with Jenn and impatient with Zinnia, who has entered a clingy/whiney stage. I'm sleep deprived, stressed from the rigors of learning the ropes of a new job, and am "working on" changing my diet from one of a pure, unadulterated carb addict who used to shoot-up half a bag of Reduced Fat Ruffles, to a diet that is more protein-rich.

And now my bike was tethered to a bike rack like a baby elephant tied to a sapling in Thailand. I felt a mild sense of panic, and more, the first pangs of a deep emotional attachment to this old clunker that I hadn't even known existed. What had this bicycle ever done to deserved such a fate--to be permanently lashed to a rack outside of REI while uber-rich hikers scoffed and spit at it like yesterdays trash? I did what any sane bicycling enthusiast would do: I began to strip my old paint of whatever parts weren't bolted down and called my super-competent wife for help. Jenn immediately Googled "How to crack a Kryptonite lock."*

I began to fantasize about what my next bike would be. Maybe I'll finally get that $1500 road bike I have longed for for five years. I'll even get the bike garb: the silly shorts that accent my package, the water bottles, the odometer.

I turned toward the entrance to let the manager know that my bright yellow Motobecane would remain locked in front of their building into perpetuity unless they helped me liberate it, but paused. Something moved inside of me, a quiet whisper. It said: Stop, ask for help.

"Okay," I said out loud. In that moment I felt more connected to spirit than I had in months simply through the act of leaning in. "Please, God, let this key work just one more time."

I lifted up the lock to give it a final go, and just like that, one end of the horseshoe popped free from its prison. How could I not smile.

Of late, I had been resentful toward God for various grievances. Resentful for giving me a body that won't let me run marathons or sleep soundly; for giving me a body that can't practice yoga every day and won't allow me to eat whatever I please; a body whose natural cholesterol setting routinely spikes between 280-300. And don't get me started on how God adamantly refuses to send a publisher my way, one who recognizes my pure, polished gift as a writer and creative genius, and who wants to sign me to a three book deal with movie options.

And then that lock popped open and reminded me that perhaps it's just as easy as asking for what I want with a sincere heart and clear mind.

And speaking of which ... (insert wavy flashback lines)

Way back in 1998 I moved to Portland. I was struggling to find a job and watched as my savings dwindle down to a trickle. One gray Saturday morning, I was sitting alone in my haunted apartment,* donning a pair of boxers and black socks and wondering how the hell I was going to pay the bills.

"How much do you need?" a quiet voice within asked.

It gave me pause. I took a moment to tally up all of my expenses. My ebst guess was, I needed enough to cover three months worth of rent, bills, and food. "$1500," I said out loud. "Fifteen hundred dollars, and I can relax until I find a job."

The next day, my father called out of the blue to let me know that my aunt wanted to give me a monetary gift for the amount of $1500 to help me on my way.

So why not have routine daily talks with the Big Guy? At night, rather than talk to God, I tell myself I don't have time or I don't know what to pray for or Spirit already knows what I need/want. But really, I am simply out of praying shape. It's like going back to the gym after taking a year off. The first few work-outs are like landing in a sweaty, lunar dream-scape, but one quickly builds up stamina until it become a pure pleasure. The need to pray--my need to pray--to talk to God, to connect with the Universe is, I'm convinced, as important to my existence as my very breath.

Communing with Spirit seems to come down to three words, Practice, Practice, Practice. I was speaking to a dear friend recently about my struggles in finding the energy for spiritual practice these days and how I missed sweat lodge and ceremony and a strong meditation practice.

"Well, Honey (he calls everyone Honey), I hear, but you already are in sweat lodge. Maybe the rocks aren't there, and your not sitting in the dark in the heat with someone pouring water, but you are in lodge every day. You're a father and a husband, a provider and a creative being, and you are walking consciously on the planet and being of service to others. You are in lodge every day. And thank God for that."

Aho ...

... please, Spirit, send the publisher anyway.



*With a crowbar

**At that time I didn't know it was haunted. I was eventually chased from the apartment due to too much supernatural shenanigans. Very creepy.