VirusHead

Nestled front and center against a huge cumulus cloud, the moon looks like a hole in the sky tonight. My camera can’t capture the mood, but there is a fiery/faerie halo around the whole moon. It’s beautiful. It rained last night, so the full moon was hidden, but tonight’s moon still looks pretty full to me.

Moon over Atlanta

“Then came old January wrapped well
In many weeds to keep the cold away;
Yet did he quake and quiver, like to quell,
And blow his nails to warm them if he may.”
- Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queen

I’m cold. I can’t get warm tonight.

I’m sending out hope and care and love and light to so many people I know, people I care about who have lost jobs and lost houses. There’s one smashed up car and one damaged car, a fire, and several scary medical emergencies. I’m hearing about a fair bit of smallness and meanness and drama of one kind or another, and also about how people are having a hard time making ends meet, and who are trying to navigate very difficult terrain. It seems like this should be a time when we all pull together and be more helpful and supportive of one another. Even among those who are doing relatively fine, there seems to be a widespread tendency to depression and fatigue. Perhaps it’s normal for the post-holiday January blahs, especially considering the snow and ice and flooding and who knows what else.

I’m thinking about one friend in particular tonight, a woman who not only had to go through what had to be a very frightening experience when her lovepartner had a brain aneurysm, but then had to deal with a family member who blamed the incident on the fact that her religious beliefs weren’t identical to his own. As if God would punish her – and through someone she loved – for her non-compliance to some spiritual midget’s unthinking person’s standards. Now she’s being threatened with disassociation from the rest of the family because she had the courage to point out that such a statement wasn’t very caring or supportive of family in a medical crisis. This young woman has already been through so much. She is a very compassionate and caring person. She is blunt when confronting unfairness, but she is also just learning how to really articulate a lot of things that have been painful and destructive to her – as well as things that she has learned through her own experience and insight. She is courageous and curious and she loves her boyfriend and the animals she rescues and the friends in her life. She will be ok, I know – but I can also palpably feel her sense of betrayal and pain. It must be awfully hard to deal with that on top of navigating the medical system and trying to make sure that her boyfriend is taken care of properly. He’s a stellar guy – intelligent and creative – and I know they’ll support one another through all this. He’s already doing much better. I hope that she can focus on being with him, and bracket out the rest – at least for a little while until the whole situation has a time-out.

Sometimes, though, when I hear about these things, I’m struck by the anti-agapic qualities of so many people who think they are religious, and I feel a little sick. I know that it means a lot to offer caring and support, but I also feel helpless. I have empathy, and a tendency to try to heal hurts – even just imaginatively. You never know what might help. But what do you say to someone when you can’t make anything better or easier for them? I’m thrashing around half the time myself.

I tried to watch the news tonight, and I actually couldn’t bear it. I had to walk away. I’m freezing and I can’t seem to reset my thermostat. I can’t get warm. I’m tired.

I’m thinking about all kinds of changes – how life moves on, whether or not you’re ready. I know that I have to keep starting again, and that a more hopeful-trusting-positive attitude would be vastly preferable for me. It works… then it doesn’t work. I’m full of confidence and creative ideas, then everything deflates and I find myself looking at some small small rock on the ground for ten minutes – or I realize that I’ve daydreamed several contradictory scenarios trying to work something out when I haven’t even identified what I’m practicing for – why am I creating conversations in my head? They have nothing to do with the dialogue that I’ve been trying to write – it would be great if they were. I’ve dreamed people that don’t exist, and places I’ve never been, and situations that will never exist. And I revise them – for nothing, really. It doesn’t help to know that my internal scenes are passing, and what seems so emotionally fraught will seem somewhat inconsequential and silly at some later time. It’s like when you’re a kid and you attach yourself to a song and it seems so meaningful, and then years later you have to laugh, just remembering how important and serious it seemed at the time.

I’ve been fine, then not fine, then depressed, then creative, then hopeful, then tired, then depressed again… and I’m really losing interest in my own thoughts and feelings. I just want to curl up with a book. Everything I have on hand that I haven’t already read is spiritually uplifting and hopeful and again – another wave of nausea at the thought.

I know it’s all very silly. I know that I am loved – despite how difficult I can make that – and that the wheel will turn. As scary as it can sometimes be, change is something that can be counted on. Things will change, and then they’ll change some more – everything is always in process. Trying to hang on to a static reality is deadly, anyway. It’s best to pay attention, adjust, ride it through – or surf it if you can – and be open to the bl(i)ssings as they arrive over the top of the other side.

Yesterday we went to the BAPS Shri Swaminarayan Mandir Hindu Temple in Lilburn. Despite its proximity to us, we hadn’t heard about it until John’s brother suggested meeting there.

When we drove in, there was a small gatehouse. We stopped at the gate, and a man stuck his head out and asked, “What’s your name?” John told him his own name. Ben and I were silent. He opened the gate. So, already, things were a little surreal. Why would he ask the name? How did we know that only John’s name mattered, or were we wrong about that? Was he checking against some sort of list? Or just making a note of it? Why?

The Wikipedia description:

The BAPS Shri Swaminarayan Mandir Atlanta is the sixth BAPS traditional Hindu stone temple built outside of India. It is also the largest Hindu temple of its kind outside of India. It is currently open to the public. The 32,000-square-foot (3,000 m2) temple, officially called the Shri Swaminarayan Mandir, sits on 30 acres (120,000 m2). With hand-carved stone spires that tower 75 feet (23 m), it is the the tallest building in Lilburn, Georgia, dominating the intersection of Rockbridge Road and Lawrenceville Highway. More than 1,300 craftsmen and 900 volunteers dedicated their time in putting this 34,450-piece stone marvel together. More than 4,500 tons of Italian Carrara marble, 4,300 tons of Turkish limestone, and 3,500 tons of Indian pink sandstone was quarried and shipped to the craftsmen in India. Then, all of the nearly 35,000 pieces were shipped to the United States. It serves members of the Swaminarayan branch of Hinduism, which originated in India more than 200 years ago. The traditional design features custom-carved stonework, a wraparound veranda and five prominent pinnacles reminiscent of the Himalayan hills.

The Lilburn location is the largest temple in North America for BAPS. Built at an estimated cost of $19 million, the temple complex is only the third of its kind in the country, surpassing BAPS temples in Houston and Chicago. A similar mandir was recently opened in Toronto as well. The temple’s sanctuary is open to all, as it is in Chicago, Houston, and Toronto.

The organization’s current spiritual guru, Pramukh Swami Maharaj, came to Lilburn in 2004 and blessed the first foundation stones. The guru, who celebrated his 86th birthday in 2006, returned to Lilburn in August 2007 to sanctify the completed temple. Upon completion, a keystone weighing more than 5 tons was twisted into place on the ceiling of the central dome inside.

It really was very beautiful, and I loved the recurring patterns everywhere. However… and I know I’m being a little snarky here, but there is something very postmodern – in the bad way – about standing between a reflecting pool and an ornate temple, then looking over to see a huge Publix supermarket across the street. That’s somehow so very wrong. It would be better in the middle of a crowded city, where it could be like a hidden jewel (like Buddhist temples in Taipei) or dominating the landscape on a hill (like Sacré-Coeur in Paris). Alternatively, it could have been given a little more elbow room a little further away from the stripmall road (like the La Salette shrine in my home town). Something about the spirit of the place reminded me of that awful replica of the White House near my house. For all it cost to build, I think they missed something essential – or maybe that was somehow the whole point?

I also felt a little let down because I had imagined it to be much larger than it was.

We took off our shoes in the entryway and placed them in little cubbyholes. There were women everywhere, cleaning all the bits of stone. A couple of men were making fine adjustments to the carvings on the central columns. Unfortunately, no photography was allowed inside, or I would have tried to capture the inner room.

What struck me most forcefully were the ceiling mandalas – very fractal and trippy and just beaming with great energy.

Everyone was silent – by decree of the signs – but that seemed wrong to me. There should have been chanting, bells, singing, dancing! Perhaps it was just because we were there on an off hour – I don’t know. I also missed the smells of incense and candles.

I just couldn’t shake the feeling that things were somehow slightly off – it was all too clean and pristine. There were plexiglass shields around the carved columns, when there should have been encouragement to touch them. What kind of temple is this, really? I don’t know much of anything about this particular flavor of Hinduism, but there should be a sense of age – and at least a little grime – in a temple.

There was a guestbook inside, and that was strange to me too. John had given his name at the gate, so I signed the guestbook with mine.

Our timing was off, and all the internal alter doors were closed and locked, so I’ll probably go back sometime soon to see them.

Still, the little lights against the stone inside made it seem like you were in some sort of sandcastle. There was a place-based zing-moment or two in the middle of all that, looking up at the ceiling mandalas, especially the one right near the (locked up) alter. It was also noted (no names) that some of the carvings boasted rather nice breasts (hey, not every religious tradition is closed off to sacred sexuality).

Just before we left, a man came inside, sat down on the rug on the floor – dead center of the mandala, and listened to his iPod, eyes closed. He looked like he was going to be there for some time. For some reason, it struck me as very funny. I wonder how long you can do that before someone taps you on the shoulder. I mean, you’re basically hogging the entire vertical ley line – or maybe that concept doesn’t apply here. I kept thinking of the whole process of creating, sustaining and destroying that is so inherent to the Hindu vision. This temple didn’t seem to be about flows and movement and process, but more about a museum-type static series. It’s an interesting, even fascinating, monument, but… well, again – we were seeing it at an “off” time. I’ll go back and see the differences when the alter doors are opened.

It was fun to visit the place. Despite my critical reaction, I will probably go back.

Patterns, though – patterns. I kept thinking luminous interconnections – the making and unmaking of Tibetan mandala sand paintings, zooming the Mandelbrot set, resonating synchronicities, crunchy neutrinos, birds and flutterbys, staring squirrels, dream voices, tingling toes, free-associations from a tarot card spread – or a painting that calls to you – or a book that you’ve got to pick up although you don’t really have much interest in it…

We came back to the house for a cup of coffee and some conversation, then went over to Houston’s for some mighty fine ribs and a couple of margueritas.

What really mattered yesterday wasn’t anything about a temple but just being together, relaxing, and enjoying one another’s company. It had been a while since we’d seen Tom and Pam, and it was a warm loving snuggly sort of get-together.

Next time, maybe I’ll bring a bell and we can make a “temple” wherever we are.

Life in Atlanta seems so unreal and disconnected and wrong sometimes. I like some things about being here, but it’s stifling and isolating and I can’t help but feel that overall it’s unhealthy for my spirit, mind and body. I feel like I’m walking in a ditch. I feel like I’m trapped in plastic wrap.

There are probably a lot of other places that I would enjoy. In the States, I feel that I’d like Washington or Oregon, maybe parts of California. I enjoy some places in the southwest – at least to visit. I love New England, but I’m not sure that I’d really do well there over the long-term.

Every once in a while, I wish I could have stayed in Paris.

Here are some things that I hold dear in my memory:

• Our tiny studio apartment on the top floor of a building on Rue des Carmes, in the Latin Quarter, Left Bank, 5th arrondissement. Rooftop access allowed us to view the city from a spectacular viewpoint between Notre Dame Cathedral and the Panthéon. Because of a strange arrangement of windows, we could see Notre Dame from inside the shower!
• Food! Every kind of food. I never had a bad meal. Even when I received a pig’s foot (thinking I was ordering pork chops) it was delicious. I ate everything – and was thin.
• The intellectual style, the flirtatious style, the rude style – every style. I have never been so fascinated by other people.
• Street markets overflowing with gorgeous fragrant fruit – and the lilacs that I could never resist.
• Walking. I walked everywhere. I was never so fit. There was something new to explore around every corner. Glorious places, historical monuments, public gardens, the riverwalk, hearing street music, getting caught up in a parade.
• Trying to buy nail polish remover over the counter.
• The long nights. It seemed as though Paris nights last forever. We would stay up until 2 or 3, and never feel it.
• Dear friends. You know who you are – and one is gone forever.
• Bookstores and booksellers – lot of places to find amazing things to read, even in English.
• The ambiance that somehow allowed me to feel free and happy – and a little wild. I felt comfortable being myself.
• John was teaching in Lille, so he stayed there for part of the week, and we had a rhythm of some days together and some days apart. That worked out very well for both of us.
• Throwing my high-heeled shoes over the bridge and walking across Paris – stockingfooted – in the middle of the night.
• The wonderful woman in a nearby pâtisserie who taught me the words for everything in a bakery – and relentlessly corrected my pronunciation.
• The crazy shops of Montmarte and the Basilica of the Sacré Cœur at the tippity-top of the city.
• Excellent public transportation! The Métro is easy and fun, and I’ve never been on a faster train than the TGV.
• The Parisian way of saying “oui” – with an in-breath, and the hint of a long “a” at the end.
• Père-Lachaise Cemetery, especially the tomb of Abélard and Héloïse and the wonderful sculpture over Oscar Wilde.
• Centre Georges Pompidou. I could wander around in there forever.
• Movies! Tons of movies!
• I loved almost everywhere we went, especially throughout Haute-Provence and Haute-Savoie. My favorite meal was in a crypt in Dijon.

I could go on and on.

The contrast – and not just because I was young and in love – is so striking.

I feel a strong desire to be living in some place where there are a lot of vital, creative, intelligent people. I miss and want an intellectual community – live, not only just over the internet. I miss debating. I miss the rules of dialogue and discourse.

At the same time, I can’t really blame anyone but myself for my isolation. It’s not as though there aren’t great people here in Atlanta, too – and I’ve withdrawn somewhat voluntarily. I just don’t feel that I have anything to contribute to the various scenes here. I don’t belong here.

Maybe it’s just being married, being a mom. Maybe it’s that I’m much more tired than I used to be, and it’s hard to motivate myself to leave the home nest. Maybe it’s that my working hours take up so much of my time and energy now that I feel guilty leaving my son and husband to do much of anything else outside. I’m already gone so much. It might get better when Ben is old enough not to need childcare.

I think the biggest factor, though, is that so many of my good friends have moved on. Who can I call anymore – even to go catch a movie? As far as the more local options are concerned, I’m not a member of any church – which seems to be the major venue – and I feel too old to be involved in music, or even the art world. I’m not an academic anymore, and truthfully I don’t have very much interest in engaging with the kind of intellectual life I see.

Today I had lunch with a dear former neighbor. It was so fun just to go out to lunch with her and help her a little on some computer things. We ran into someone else that we both knew – and who didn’t know that we knew each other. Such a little thing – three women laughing – made me realize how much I miss things like that.

John and Evan and Ben took the opportunity to go hiking up Stone Mountain. They had a fun time and I was trying to think about the last time we all did something like that all together. I think I’m probably the party-pooper of the bunch – they even had to drag me out to launch the rocket. I wonder if it would have been different if we had had another child – a girl, maybe. Too late for that, though – I’m just outnumbered. Or maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference. Maybe I’m just becoming too introverted.

I can’t decide if I’m just trying to hang onto a life I should have abandoned long ago (maybe even a romanticized version of it) or if I really have just become a hopelessly boring old woman. I don’t know how other people manage to do all the things they do. I can only do anything in bursts of energy that don’t come along as often as they used to. Maybe it’s just the winter doldrums.

Years ago, I made a tape that I called my K-Tel Self-Pity Collection. Those same songs don’t let me sigh and weep and be morbidly self-absorbed and morose in nearly as satisfying a way anymore, so I’m looking for new items.. I mean, how many years can you listen “Shilo” or “Daniel” anyway?

Do you any have suggestions for really good music for wallowing in depression/sadness (until you can get sick of it and work your way out)?

If I’m going to feel sorry for myself, I’d like to do it right.

On this gray wet afternoon, we went over to the park and twice launched Ben’s new rocket. Very fun.

Wow – thanks for sending, Peggy!

Click for full image.