Sometimes the Magic Works (Part 2)
. . . and sometimes the magic doesn’t.
So there I was last Thursday with the temperature at 97 degrees here in New York and the heat index at 117, with the air-conditioning humming away in my apartment at least. I’d gotten up at 6 am to finish necessary tasks prior to leaving, had finished them, and was ready to leave at 3:30 pm when the driver from the car service called from downstairs.
I decided to wear shorts and a T-shirt out to the airport and change into my traveling clothes out there, the heat and humidity being so brutal I figured I’d be drenched in sweat by the time I got down the three flights of steps in the non-air-conditioned hall of this 175-year-old Federal building in GreenwichVillage.
That worked well, and I took a seat at the gate and read on my Kindle for an hour before boarding at 6 pm for my flight to the Burbank airport north of Los Angeles.
But about 6:15, lightning-thick thunderstorms hit the city. We taxied out and queued up waiting for takeoff anyway and there we sat encapsulated in our Airbus 320 while the storms raged above us for 2 hours and 40 minutes–till it headed back to the terminal, as per new FAA regulations that don’t allow passengers to be held in a plane for more than three hours.
And there we waited for a bit less than an hour while the plane was refueled (after the lightning died down), followed by a reboarding.
This time we sat on the concrete for a bit more than two hours, finally taking off about 12:40 am, some six hours later than planned.
I don’t sleep well on airplanes, in fact mostly not at all. And that both my seat mates, who apparently didn’t share that with me, and slept soundly most of the way, left the television screens on the backs of the seats in front them on and flashing didn’t help much either. Nor did the cone of light that spilled over onto me from the overhead light of the dedicated reader behind me.
I’d called one of my contacts in Pasadena from the airport during our refueling and told him that though I’d try, I might well not be able to make the short talk I was supposed to give to a group of solvent entrepreneurs the next day at 1 pm.
In the air, As we passed the 6 am mark New York time, droning on at 36,000 feet, I did the best I could with continuing to let go and allowing my body to try to find at least some amount of rest.
Now, meditation is not something you practice in order to induce sleep. It is essentially a state of relaxed awareness, of clarity, of presence. But I used a kind of dumbed down and cereal-box form of it, along with progressive body relaxation, to drain some of the weariness away, which was rapidly approaching exhaustion. I followed my breath, but only loosely, without concentration, on each exhale simply said silently, “Rest.” Or, switching after a while, “Peace.” And alternated between the two.
And with that, along with the extra-leg-room seat I had booked, for which I was then deeply grateful, I managed to avoid complete depletion.
And we landed at Burbank at a bit after 4 am local time, 7 am New York time. I was in my hotel by 4:30 am local time, and it was 5:30 by the time I was checked in, unpacked, and washed up. I had now been up going on 26 hours straight. I wanted to speak for these people at 1 pm, but knew that I simply couldn’t, that I couldn’t grab four or five hours sleep, get up, get to where I needed to be, speak, then get back to the hotel and get ready for the keynote speech I had to deliver that night at the opening of the three-day retreat I was scheduled into, and what’s more then sit as one part of a two-person panel and take questions for an hour and a half more.
Sometimes the magic works, sometimes the magic doesn’t.
So I surrendered. I gave up. I let go of my self-will and accepted that I just couldn’t manage this. I called my contact—I knew he’d be asleep, with his bell off, and that his voicemail would pick up—and told him that I couldn’t make it, please give everyone my apologies and tell them I would try to make it up to them somehow later.
I’m glad I was able to find what measure of rest I could on the flight, after a long, demanding day, glad I have experience in ways to do that. And glad that I know how to surrender when finally it becomes clear that simply trying to bull my way through isn’t going to work, is only going to hurt me. That I know how to let go.
Which is something I had to learn a long time ago, and am glad that I did. Even though I take it right up to the edge on occasion. But not over, thankfully. Not over. Not anymore.
So Here We Are
You’re reading this, I’m writing it, and for right now—this instant, anyway—we’re both in the present moment.
Good.
And the site is launched.
And now that present moment is gone.
In Zen practice, meditation, there’s a phenomenon known as: “Here I am! . . . wasn’t I.”
But the site is launched, and that remains.
For me, that’s cause to celebrate. It’s been five months in the shaping. I hope it will be cause for you to celebrate, too. That it will do exactly what it intends to for you—help you get out of debt, stay out, and live prosperously.
That certainly made my own life better (to engage in really serious understatement). It will yours too.
I put up a few posts along the way as I was developing the site. I’ll be posting regularly here now that it’s officially launched.
I’m looking forward to more present moments. For all of us.
To abundant lives.
Yours, mine.
Welcome.
Meditation and the #1 Train
I left my apartment in plenty of time to meet my friend Susan, the art dealer, at the Lincoln Square cinema complex on Broadway and 68th. Actually, figured I’d have a little time to browse at the Barnes & Noble store two blocks down,or stop in at Gracious Homes.
We were going to see a movie and have an early dinner. Which we do now and then.
I had my much and happily appreciated Kindle with me to read on the subway ride up, and then back down again later.
First thing, the #1 train, which I take fifty-plus blocks, a local, was crowded. But I got a seat, though. Second thing, the PA system announced that due to track work the train would be going express after 42nd Street and wouldn’t stop again till 72nd Street.
Okay, so I’d walk down from there. No big deal. I had my waterproof sneakers on. (Lot of slush left in the city.)
Next thing, my Kindle died after one stop. Well, it didn’t really die, but it announced that the battery was empty and it would not, could not serve again till I could do something about that. Which I couldn’t, being on the train.
Next thing, the train began stopping for ever lengthening intervals in the tunnel, consequence of the track work ahead.
Okay, no reading. Longer trip. I’ll just settle in for some conscious breathing.
Next thing, after 42nd Street, “express” became a colossal misnomer. Stop. Start. Stop, wait. Start-stop-wait. Start-stop-start-stop-wait. Wait.
Some frustration begins.
Okay. I’ll mediate.
Follow the breath in, follow the breath out – one. Follow the breath in, follow the breath out – two. Follow the breath in, follow the breath out – three. Follow the breath in, follow the breath out . . .
A Mariachi band starts up at the end of the car.
Follow the breath in, follow –
Two guitars, and an accordion.
Follow –
And now the vocals.
And all of it loud, advancing down the car.
Damn!
I am unhappy, frustrated, annoyed.
I open my eyes.
They’re even costumed, these Mariachis. And singing their hearts out. And of course the one bringing up the rear pauses from his playing every several moments to proffer his upturned hat to the riders, all of whom ignore him.
I am really annoyed. I had a pleasant little trip planned. This is noisy and interruptive and obtrusive, and I don’t like it, not one bit.
He’s short, this last player, and so are the other two I realize, and this one, the only one whose face I can really see, is olive-skinned and has features that have to line back to the Aztecs or Incas, and he’s smiling pleasantly and looks to be in genuinely good spirits even though no one is putting any money in his hat.
And suddenly, inexplicably, I am glad be right here, right where I am, right here in this subway car, with its stops and starts, which is carrying me miles uptown beneath the cold and snow and slush ridden streets, and which I somehow now notice, now that I’ve come awake, is filled with at least half a dozen ethnicities and maybe even twice that many and varied dress and mannerisms and presentations, and I take control of my own mind and wonder how it was I had become mired in frustration and annoyance, and I consciously become glad I have a Kindle, and that I live in a city that is rich and dynamic and has nearly everything I could possibly want from a city, and a great big lot of that, and even small chunks of actual nature up in Central Park, with hawks and owls, for God’s sake, and a subway car that’s filled with lives that could keep me writing for months or maybe even years, if I wanted to do it that way, and in which a Mariachi band can appear suddenly, play briefly – and I am now aware that they play pretty well – and then move on, heading toward the next car.
Except for the last of them, who notices that I am reaching back into my hip pocket and pauses to give me time to get it out. And when I put the bill into his hat, he smiles and nods a little and then moves on with the other two.
And it turned out to be pretty good subway ride after all.
