47. Meditate at an Ashram in India

Sidestepping a homeless beggar, I exited the suffocating train from Delhi to Haridwar trying hopelessly not to regret my decision to travel to India.  Physically overwhelmed by every sensory stimulus, I wanted to will myself to disappear into another atmosphere. One that put my physical well being at far less risk.  Blaring car horns, station announcements in Hindi and dozens of aggressive taxi drivers offering their services had me disoriented and longing for the safety of my hometown. The poverty and disease hung in the air all around me, and I wasn't sure whether I should laugh or cry when I was nearly hit by a speeding scooter, zipping past me, carrying a family of five. And somehow amid this, I was supposed to find serenity.

The decision to travel to India was made nearly a year before I actually stepped into the third world country, in the safety of my living room, with the comfortable distance of a computer screen to mask any danger. I will admit that Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat Pray Love (both the book and movie) were highly influential in my decision to travel to India, and stay in an ashram. I had already eaten my way through Italy (as well as many other places), so India was the natural next step. Like Gilbert, I was seeking peace and serenity after my divorce. I was on nothing less than a spiritual crusade, so the country where it all began seemed like the perfect source. I imagined myself meeting with gurus, meditating for hours, manipulating my body into ridiculous yoga positions all while eating the most delicious, clean, vegan diet--fully cooked to at least 165 degrees F. The result of all of this would, of course, be enlightenment.

Hanuman

To prepare for my trip, I dove into research. I did yoga 5 days a week, I studied Hinduism and tried (unsuccessfully) to remember at least some of the most important Hindu Gods. I became a vegetarian, and meditated and chanted to Ganesha daily. I studied maps, and reached out to my Indian friends. I learned about Indian culture, dress, food, entertainment and music. I traveled more than a few times to Little India, and I stumbled through the basics of the Hindi language. My boyfriend was responsible for vaccine research. Turns out the number of inoculations needed to stay healthy enough to reach enlightenment is 8. Luckily my doctor is from India and was able to give me good advice, having just traveled there herself. More importantly, she was able to give me good drugs. I literally traveled with a mini pharmacy of antibiotics, malaria medication, iodine pills, food poisoning kit, etc. My boyfriend was also in charge of ashram research. In other words it was his task to find a place for us to stay that was safe, clean(ish) had yoga, meditation, a guru, you know, just the whole spiritual package I was dreaming about. We ruled out the ashram in Eat Pray Love because it was located in South India and we had focused our attention on a town called Rishikesh, in North India, the center of yoga and Ayurvedik healing. It is also the town made famous by the Beatles after their ashram visit in 1967. He emailed a few ashrams in the area, but did not get a lot of information back. In fact some ashrams did not reply at all. Some were evasive and seemed reluctant to give out much information. I was starting to worry that we might not be able to make this work. I certainly didn't want to just show up and not have a place to stay. And it was very difficult to know which ashram was the best fit for us. We had already been warned multiple times, by Indians no less, not to trust anyone, so we felt very vulnerable. Finally, after several weeks of correspondence, we learned that we were invited to stay at the ashram Parmarth Niketan. This was both exciting and scary. It was our first choice, but what did we really know about it? And how could we really prepare ourselves for such a unique experience? One you don't often read about in tour books. Then in uncharacteristic form, my very private boyfriend mentioned our trip in passing to an colleague  at work, and with that, everything karmically fell into place. That acquaintance had a friend who had been staying at an ashram in Rishikesh for over a year. In fact, that friend was staying at THE ashram that just agreed to host us. We began communicating with her--which went much faster, and were able to get the inside scoop on everything, from what to bring to what to expect when we arrive. Having an American woman at the ashram we were traveling to was a huge advantage as well as inspiration. It gave me that extra boost I needed to go through with this crazy adventure.

Our comfy room

And that's just what I was thinking when I got off the train in Haridwar. This is crazy! Like 'I could die,' crazy. And just as I was about to be suffocated by my anxiety, I somehow managed to stop resisting what was in front of me. While lying down on my ashram bed trying to receive the swamp cooler's stingy offering of respite from the heat, I made a decision to accept my situation. India is an all out assault on the senses. It is like waves at the beach. You can fight against them, and they will knock you down. Or you can dive into them, frightening though it seems, and come out the other side feeling totally alive. What a blessing it was to have dived into my experience in India and accept this beautiful, horrifying country just as it was, and not as I wanted it to be. This was the first of many lessons I learned on my trip.

Shiva

With my new attitude I set out to explore this mysterious institution in which I found myself. Parmarth Niketan means house of highest truth and salvation. I prefer, however the way our new American friend described it when we arrived--"It's like Hogwarts. Real magic happens here." I also loved the way she described the guru Swami Chidanand Saraswati, or swamiji (sounds like Swami G) for short, head of Parmarth. She said he literally glows. She admitted that she could not even talk to him for the first six months she was there without crying. I had never met a guru. I was skeptical, terrified, excited. Could he see through me? My past present and future all at once. Would he just take me for another phony tourist looking to have an exotic experience in India? Part of me felt like a phony tourist looking to have an exotic experience in India. What if he was a phony guru? I've certainly heard a lot about them. Suddenly all my Indian friends' warnings of not to trust anyone came back to me. India is a country of survivors. What if Swamiji was simply masquerading as a guru, duping us dumb tourists out of our money to feed his family back home. Regardless, I was there, spiritually infantile, desirous nonetheless to meet with this man who supposedly talks with God. And ultimately to understand how I, myself, can do the same. Swamiji is a busy man, however, and does not have time to meet with all his followers. In fact, people can travel from all over world to see him, but never meet him in person. We were lucky that he was on the premises during our visit. And we were even luckier to have our new American friend personally introduce us. When we did finally meet him, I was surprised to find how shy, and tongue tied I was. I felt out of sorts. Unaccustomed to the rituals necessary to greet a guru, I fumbled through a bow, a kneel to the ground, and a traditional "namaste" hands to heart greeting. I thought I should cover my bases. Then I just sat and listened to him talk to us about life and pain, and love, and God. He has a funny sense of humor and great wit. His lessons are easy to remember with trademark lines like, "We cannot be in peace if we are in pieces." It did not take long to realize that he was the real deal. His relationship with God was evident in his appearance, in everything he said, and in his many selfless deeds. More to the point, his relationship with God was evident in the way I felt closer to God by being near him. Lesson number two--surround yourself with people who have a relationship with God.

Darshan

Friends

Indians like white people

Our American friend, Rane (her Indian name) then introduced us to other young spiritual sojourners at the ashram. Some had been there for a few months, others longer. All of them had the same goal, however--to find God.  There was Carlos, a gentle, highly enlightened young soul from Mexico City. He had stopped in India for a few months on what has turned out to be a multiple year global journey. There was Shanti(her Indian name) a cute, white, blonde girl from Berkley, looking for something she can't seem to find anywhere else in the world. There was Nishtha (her real name) and Nishahn (his real name) Indians from Australia and Canada respectively, and for some reason always seen together. I thought they might be a couple because they looked so cute together, but they were not. Nishtha had a wild streak in her I could tell. While Nishahn was polite and humble to a fault. Nandini or Nancy was also Indian, and I could never quite figure her out. I don't know if she was from India, because she seemed so western, yet she was by far the most authentically committed participant in the ashram ceremonies. We met other travelers from Italy, India, and Eastern Europe there just for a few days like us. It felt like a dorm, and because breakfast, lunch and dinner were all included in the price of the room($20 a day) we inevitably ran into the same people in the cafeteria as well as at ashram activities and ceremonies. Being among all these seekers made me appreciate my journey a bit more. It also taught me to be patient with myself and to learn to be thankful for the hardships as well as blessings  along the way. Everyone is on a journey, and at various points of that journey. The key is to be on the journey, and to trust that whatever challenges and blessings come my way, are there specifically for me.

One of the challenges on this journey was finding fulfilling meditation and yoga classes. I assumed that the ashram would have yoga and meditation 24/7, and that by the end of the week, I'd be having conversations with God while standing on my head. After one very simple yoga class, and an early morning meditation/ class led entirely in Hindi(I think), we decided to look outside the ashram for yoga. By chance, the one class we found was led by a young girl from Fullerton, CA, 20 minutes away from our hometown. The class ended up being informative and interesting, just not what we had hoped for. Apparently there were many highly challenging classes offered by Indian yogis, we just didn't know where to look.

Holy cow

Street food we did not eat

My favorite part of the ashram experience, besides meeting unique and like minded people, was the Ganga aarti ceremony performed every night. For this ceremony, hundreds of people gather on the banks of the Holy Ganga river to sing praises to God. The world disappears in the blazing fire, and with it all worries, sins, and negativity. And for those hours we are united as a sea of voices with a common purpose--to understand our own divinity, and to serve humanity. It's a powerful ceremony and one that I greatly miss. I also miss greeting everyone with my hands to heart, a slight bow of humility, and a very cheerful, "Namaste." Namaste roughly means--the divinity in me recognizes the divinity in you. I would think this every time I greeted someone, and by the end of the week I truly felt what I was saying. I felt divine and I felt like I was surrounded by divine souls. I loved walking through the streets of Rishikesh and seeing familiar faces in the very tiny community by the ashram. I loved stopping in for hot honey, ginger, lime juice, graciously offered for free at various shops where we developed friendships with the owners. I loved encountering cheeky monkeys who would steel your food if you had any, and stubborn Brahman cows who seemed to have no problem understanding their divinity when playing chicken with cars in the street. I struggled to not pity the homeless beggars who lined the streets outside the ashram, as I tried to understand their place in this universe and whether it is that different than mine.

"Western approved" restaurant food we did eat

All the beautiful experiences that made up this trip, all the lessons I learned were a direct result of letting go of what control I thought I had over it. One of the last things I said to Carlos before we left the ashram was, "Control is an illusion." I fooled myself into thinking that my perfect preparation for India was going to yield the experience I really wanted, and in turn would make me wildly happy and peaceful. 5 minutes into the trip proved that plan to be a complete failure. It wasn't until I let go of the control, and had faith that I might not get the trip I wanted, but I would certainly get the trip I needed, that the "magic" happened. God is in control. And while my preparation was helpful, being open minded and present in the moment were the tools that ultimately made this trip the most profound experience I have ever had.


(Some of you may have noticed the formal wear my boyfriend and I are wearing in some of the pictures. I will just say that there was a Hindu wedding ceremony performed on the banks of the Ganga. That was the journey within the journey, and one I will document in another post. Stay tuned.)

39. Knit something wearable

While I appreciate the convenience and efficiency of modern advances, I like to keep one foot in the past, and do things the old fashioned way. It's a tricky dance to execute, but when I can, the resulting connection I feel to my ancestors, history, and humanity is a priceless gift that not only I enjoy, but get to share with my son-my future.

Both my maternal and paternal grandmothers were highly skilled at knitting, crocheting, macrame, cross stitching, embroidery, etc. I have dozens of examples of their beautiful work that is not only practical, but a reminder of who they were and how special they still are to me, even though they are no longer here. I think of my Nana every time I pull out her delicately embroidered table cloth and napkins. And I can't help but smile when I wrap up in my grandma Lucille's colorful crochet blanket. These gifts were made with love and carefully honed skills, and are worth so much more to me than anything they could have purchased at a store. It occurred to me, with Christmas approaching, that I should learn to knit, and give my creations away as gifts.

It turns out that there is the most beautiful yarn store just down the street from me--who knew. And not only do they sell unique yarn, they offer classes. That's how my obsession began. I was not overly ambitious to start. I knew that I had a short amount of time and zero skill level to complete these gifts. Scarves seemed like a reasonable project to tackle. However, I had no idea that one wrong stitch would send me down a tangled knitting path with no trail of bread crumbs to help me find my way back. After much trial and error, a few classes, several pilgrimages to my knitting guru, multiple knitting needles, and about 40 hours later, I created three scarves. They weren't especially beautiful, though I would have been very proud to wear them. They weren't unique or even made from exceptional materials, but they were made with lot's of love. Within each stitch I weaved love, kindness, and all the positivity I could muster so that when the recipients wore them they would feel special.  On Christmas, I was able to give my son, and my boyfriend's daughters their gifts. I can only hope that when they wear them they feel warm and special. If not now, then maybe sometime in the future.

56. Go Skydiving

5 minutes of instruction to jump out of an airplane seems reasonable!

Free falling. Best feeling in the world

Beautiful view of Santa Barbara

I'm still alive!

The hardest part of this experience was calling to make the appointment. While the idea of jumping out of a plane was a thrilling one, and one that would no doubt garner a lot of attention and admiration once I posted the pics on facebook, committing to and executing on it was almost unthinkable. First there was the money- it's expensive to risk your life for a little adventure. Second, and more important, it's freaking crazy to risk your life for a little adventure. Isn't it? I told no one about this particular excursion. Experience has taught me that it's better to tell my mom about my crazy ideas after I've successfully accomplished them so she doesn't worry. And since I was surprising my boyfriend with this gift for his birthday, he didn't know about it either. So I was completely on my own to fret and worry for three weeks without anyone to whom I could vent my fears. The night before the jump I really began to panic. I thought about my son and how irresponsible I was being by risking not only my life, but his as well. What would happen to him should I die? Was I being a terrible mother? And what about my own mom? She would really be mad if I died. And who was I to risk my boyfriend's life? I could have potentially hurt a lot of people, and for what? A little admiration? I decided to proceed with the plan anyway. At any moment I could pull out, and I would only lose my deposit. Certainly that's better than my life.

When we arrived at the airfield, just outside of Santa Barbara, Eric was able to guess what we were doing, and to my delight was excited to do it. Admittedly he was scared, but excited as well. This gave me the confidence to proceed. And finally I wasn't alone. I could share my anxiety with another human being. After literally five minutes of instruction we were on our way to the plane. I figured I was strapped to a professional, what did I really need to know. The plane ride was the scariest part of the experience. I think my son has toy airplanes that are bigger than the tin can we went up in. If we were going to die that day, odds were that it would be because our Lilliputian airplane crashed. This made me more eager to jump out of it.

There were only a few other jumpers in our group, and I was proud to note that I was the only girl on that plane. Girl Power!  Air is cold at 18,000 ft elevation which is the point we jumped from. Watching Eric jump first was frightening, more so than jumping myself. I didn't want anything to happen to him, and I certainly didn't want to watch anything happen to him. I jumped next, and was surprised at how peaceful the feeling was. I did not get that "stomach in my throat" feeling that I feel on roller coasters. Instead it was quiet and difficult to tell that I was falling at all. When the professional I was strapped to deployed our parachute, and all seemed well, I breathed for the first time in over a minute. The rest was a piece of cake. We landed safely, and took a short van ride back to where we started. The adrenaline stayed in my system for hours. I can't say that I'll jump out of a plane again, but I have some pretty great photos to post on facebook. And yes I feel cool saying I did it.

49. Smoke a Cuban Cigar

46. Go to Club 33 in Disneyland

It was strange walking through Disneyland in heels and a dress. My boyfriend insisted that I wear a skirt, as the restaurant he was taking me to, and surprising me with for my 31st Birthday had a strict dress code. It did not take long for me to guess where we were going. I could eliminate Pizza Port, and the Hungry Bear Restaurant right away simply by the direction we were heading, but The Blue Bayou was still very much in contention for the evening's final destination. I am a big fan of their Monte Cristo sandwich, and my mouth was already watering before I got to Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I was thrilled (and not entirely surprised) when we passed the entrance to the Blue Bayou and stopped instead in front of a very unassuming, plain green door with the number 33 engraved on a simple address plate next to it.

I had always heard that to enter Club 33, a guest must press a buzzer on an intercom concealed by a hidden panel in the doorway. A receptionist will ask for the guest's name over the intercom and, if access is granted, open the door. I was excited for this part. Yet when we got to the door, we saw no intercom. The door was cracked open and we just walked in to an empty lobby. Still I was thrilled to be on the other side of the green door for once. According to wikipedia.com, corporate members pay an initiation fee of $27,500, and individual members pay $10,000 in addition to annual dues, which are about $6,100 or $3,500, respectively. Initiation and dues may change annually. There are 400 members, and the waiting time for memberships is approximately 14 years. All members must have a valid membership card to gain entrance to Club 33. Additional utilization of the card is to spouse only, with reservations accepted only from the cardholder, the spouse or the cardholder's assistant. I don't know how my boyfriend got us in, or how far in advance he had to make reservations. But I was impressed. It's nice to assume he jumped through hoops to get me in, even if he does work for Disney.

I may have been more impressed by the fancy decor and old important things in the restaurant, were it not for all the dowdy guests marring the experience. I was told no jeans, or we would be sent home. Why did I see men and women in baseball hats, t shirts and shorts? I half expected Buzz Lightyear to come in and sign autographs. Nonetheless, the food was delicious as expected, and the service was spectacular. Even the mom nursing her baby at the table next to us could not spoil that. I ordered the 5 course tasting menu - warm spinach salad with pancetta, and Dijon dressing, lake whitefish with Meyer lemon and yam pomegranate croquette, followed by New York strip steak with roasted vegetables and hollandaise, a cheese course, and finally a caramel apple tatin. I licked my plates clean. What? They were tiny portions.

It was ultimately a very delicious and unique experience for which I am grateful. And though I didn't see Walt's head, or any of the celebrities that frequent the restaurant, I will never forget my 31st Birthday at Club 33.


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Club_33

50. Get a tattoo

I always told myself that if I could think of something that I would want on my body for the rest of my life, be it a quote, a picture, a special date, etc. then I would get a tattoo of it. If I could picture myself at 80 with this same tattoo and would not look or feel completely ridiculous, then I might consider permanently inking my body. This put a lot of pressure on me the few times I actually did consider getting a tattoo. I thought it had to be so remarkable, make such a meaningful statement, that it would warrant "defiling my body" as I was taught getting a tattoo was considered by God. Nothing could measure up to that standard. At various stages of my life, I had contemplated tattoos to represent who I was. I briefly considered the "comedy/tragedy" masks when I was getting my degree in Theater. When "Moulin Rouge" came out, I pondered how the phrase, "The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is to love, and be loved in return" would look on my arm. During my "Summer of Love" I debated what kind of peace symbol would look best and where. But each time I got close, I chickened out for one reason or another. What If I inked a statement that 10 years later I no longer agreed with, or wanted on my body? The potential of regret was the biggest factor in putting off something I only thought I wanted to do. Another was not wanting to go with the crowd. It seems like everyone has a tattoo these days, even people I would never suspect.  I actually like being different. Not having tattoos made me different. I don't even have my ears pierced. A tattoo is way more rebellious than a piercing. And finally, as an actor, I have to be conscious of my body and how it will look on camera. A casting director is less likely to cast me if they have to constantly cover up my body graffiti. If you don't believe me, look up Nikki Taylor, a famous model who can't get cast because of her tattoos. She is now going through the painful process of removal. 

To give you some context, I was raised by very conservative parents, who even though they were alive during the 60's somehow managed to miss the entire decade. They had two 50's and moved straight into the 70's. According to my knowledge they had no "rebellious stage" which is often how tattoos come about. Especially during my parents generation when tattoos were the exception to the rule; unlike today where they seem to be the rule. I knew a few people growing up who had tattoos, but being raised Mormon, I just wasn't around many people who had them. However, when I was 18, and a Senior in high school, one of my best friend's got a tattoo of a lady bug beneath her bikini line. This girl was the most conservative young woman I knew, and I was blown away by her decision to get one. It was totally out of character; at least what character I had pre judged a person with tattoos to have. Years later, I asked if she still liked the tattoo, and if it held up after two babies, and to my surprise she said she was very happy and it still looked good. It made me think about who and what a tattoo is for? She clearly made a personal decision, and enjoys the little piece of art that only she and her husband can see. It made it sweet and intimate, rather than cheap and grungy.

In the Summer of 2009, I began dating my boyfriend. After a meeting at the beach, I realized that he had two tattoos. Up until that point, I had regarded him as a very well educated, buttoned up, corporate executive. Yet here he was with two, very poorly done tattoos that looked like he acquired them while drunk in Mexico. Still, this side of him was exciting, and I liked that. I learned that he, unlike my parents, spent many years in his "rebellious stage." Mexican tattoos were just a remnant of that time. A few months into our relationship, I dared him to get my name tattooed onto his arm. I said it as a joke, really, over dinner. But astonishingly, he got up, grabbed his coat and walked out to his car. I followed silently, waiting for him to say, "just kidding," at any moment, but he didn't. Maybe he was waiting for the same from me. But neither of us spoke until we arrived at the tattoo parlor. He sat down, explained what he wanted, and 10 minutes later, my name was indefinitely inscribed on his arm. It was fast, exciting, sexy, rebellious, and I wanted more. I knew I couldn't keep telling my boyfriend to get tattoos to satisfy this desire (though I'm still hopeful that we can fix the Mexican mistake). It was time for me to step up.

With newly discovered excitement, I researched celebrity tattoos. Rhianna has some cute ones. I pondered getting stars down the back of my neck like her. But ultimately the image I kept coming back to was music notes on Lea Michelle. Like Lea Michelle, I am a singer, and music is a huge part of my life. The song fell in place much easier than I had suspected. While a few songs came up, the one I kept coming back to was "Good Feeling," by the Violent Femmes. I heard it for the first time when I first started dating my boyfriend, and fell in love with it and him at the same time. It was one of his favorite songs as a teen. It's about how elusive feeling good is, and how it "always seems like your leaving, when I need you here just a little longer." It is entirely possible that the song is about drugs. However, it was very powerful and meaningful in our young relationship, and was the jumping off point for many deep discussions. Gordon Gano, the singer, sounds so tortured in the song, and even though the title is "Good Feeling," the tone is quite melancholy. That spoke to both of us at the time.

Just as quickly and deliberately as my boyfriend etched my name on his epidermis, I strutted my virgin skin into the same tattoo parlor and rather unceremoniously became initiated into the club. I chose the first three notes of the song that begins, "Good feeling......." a half note, a quarter note, and another half note, and tagged them on the inside of my left forearm. It was painful but bearable. I cannot imagine how some people suffer through the enormous tattoos I often see pricked into their skin for what must be hours and hours, and in some of the most tender places - seriously, genitals? Will I regret it in 10 years? I doubt it. I forget I have it. It's easy to cover with makeup, it's simple and subtle, yet makes a big statement to me. It's personal, and reminds me of a time that I look back on with fond memories. I don't feel particularly rebellious, though I think about getting something bigger every once in a while. I don't feel grungy. I don't feel any less unique. After all, I still don't have my ears pierced, and have no plans to do that in the future. I am happy that I did it. I anticipate that it will still look pretty decent at 80 when I will want to be reminded of 'good feeling' more than ever.