Wrapping Gifts

By yours truly.

My friend asked me to help him wrap presents for his daughter while he's out of town. I did it mindfully -- every cut, every crease, every fold -- peacefully and with a lot of love, anticipating the child's joy. I took my time.

I thought about this preposterous notion of holiday stress, which robs many adults of joy. Wouldn't it be better if we just gave ourselves the gift of time? Thanksgiving dinners that take days to prepare are swallowed in minutes. Gifts that are painstakingly wrapped take seconds to unwrap. The paper is torn apart swiftly, thrown away and then suddenly, it's over.

When we gift, do we take time to think of the receiver of the gift? When we receive, do we take time to think of the giver? Do we think of everything that must happen for that communion, that meeting of my gift in your hands, to actually happen?

It's kind of a big deal. A miracle, really. And it all disappears into the big black hole of pressure we've invented that has nothing to do with Christmas.

Wouldn't it be better to have a holiday without so much -- oh, what should I call it? -- all this "muchness" that dampens the very spirit of that which we're trying to celebrate?

To let time expand instead of spiraling into a tight wad of stress -- that would be a great gift for all. So, I'm not going to wish anyone a happy holiday. I'm going to wish everyone a mindful holiday.

As I wrapped each gift, I thought about my inner child -- that adorable toddler with diapers bunched up under her pajamas, standing next to the Christmas tree with a mischievous smile and eyes beaming delight. There'll be no more Christmases for my family: no more mom, dad in the nursing home unable to tell the difference between one day and another and me, alone.

And then I thought about a gift I unwrap every day: dawn. And the blessing of an even greater gift, the present I unwrap every breathing moment of my life: the love my parents and I shared.

You can't put a ribbon around that love, yet it is binding and freeing all the same.

I can't wrap or unwrap my other human family, either, nor do I want to, because they are gifts that give every day: my sweetheart, my friends, the people in my professional life and YOU.

I am blessed.

Every cut, every crease, every fold -- how are you wrapping the gift of your own life each day?

So I Moved To a Buddhist Temple ...

My favorite part of the mantra is the silence between the words #tatt

If you had told me ten years ago, when I started this blog, that I'd be living and working in a Buddhist temple in Miami Beach, I'd have told you to lay off the crack.

But the truth is -- in spite of the whacky subject range of this blog -- I am deep down, a woman who has always been deeply drawn to spirituality -- a pull that has gotten stronger as I've grown older in human years.

TODAY AT THE TEMPLE

There’s a scene in Wayne Dyer's movie The Shift in which we learn that the groundskeeper is actually the owner of the resort where a wealthy guest makes his spiritual shift by opening his heart to charity. The man who has it all doesn’t understand why the owner of the resort works so humbly.

“Somebody’s still got to take care of the roses,” he says.

I’ve been living like a gypsy most of the year, recovering from the arduous role of caregiver, which is a role I'll never regret embracing.

I had lost everything. Or so I thought.

The journey has been an enlightening one – to say the least -- and blessed with many angels who have helped me along the way.

The first leg of the journey has ended now to unfold into a new adventure.

Yesterday was my first day on the job as the keeper of a temple. A Buddhist temple, no less. How I got here is not as important now as the fact that I’ve gotten to where I needed to go and to where I knew I was going -- all the time with resolute blind faith -- even if I didn't know the exact address of my destination.

I’m not here to become a Buddhist. This is simply a job. Oh, what am I thinking? Of course it’s more than a job. It’s here where one chapter ends and a new one begins. It’s here where I can take care of a sacred space that will carry me through to the completion of my book. It's here where an angel has had faith in me and blessed me with a chance to follow my heart's mission on this earth. It’s here where I write from a space of honor, putting as much reverence into dusting the Buddha as I do in each word of my book.

It’s no coincidence this job begins the same week as my birthday. And there were signs. Remember the story I wrote about Humpty Dumpty Buddha?

And as if this weren’t enough abundance, dear readers, guess what? Three times a week, I cook for those who come to pray. I cook with love for those who devote much of their lives to charity. This makes #vicequeenkitchen happy, for nourishment of the tummy is just as important as feeding the soul. How cosmically yummy is that?

Because somebody’s gotta take care of the roses. And somebody’s gotta make the curry.

And somebody’s clearly taking care of Maria, too.

Someday I’ll write: "I had gained everything. And I was right."

I'll be sharing some thoughts inspired by this journey here and socially on twitter and instagram, under the hashtag #tatt (Today at the Temple).

Humpty Dumpty Buddha

He lives in the metrorail station. Most of the time, he lies precariously on his side while his enormous belly, protruding from the same threadbare t-shirt he wears everyday, hangs over the low wall.

This Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall, had a great fall and could barely put himself back together again.

All the king’s men scurry by, too preoccupied with that precious illusion of having one’s shit together, to help this cracked shell of a man. They look angry in their pursuit of meaning.

They teach me nothing. He teaches me everything.

They rush. He sits.

They're going somewhere. He's going nowhere.

Stripped of all possession except the air in his lungs and that massive burden of flesh, he embodies the journey of being human.

I trudge along my own path and face two choices at the turnstile: northbound or southbound, faith or uncertainty.

I wonder about the passers-by, many souls with roofs over their heads who seem absolutely miserable. Do they fear losing what they never possessed?  Do they fall off the wall, their shells cracking daily? Do they put themselves back together again but come home to an empty shell?

I like to think Humpty Dumpty's story is different.

Most of us would judge him as fallen, broken, laid to waste in poverty, an outcast from creature comforts and human love.

But Humpty Dumpty's shell is a flimsy veneer. The truth could only ever be revealed in the cracks. The cracks are the thing. In them we glimpse the beauty in imperfection, the source of compassion in abject misery, the gift of joy in immeasurable sadness, love where there never was love.

And so I wonder, every time I see this homeless man, what it truly means to be dispossessed.

And I claim as my own the only thing no one can take away from me: love.

No matter how many times I fall, or my shell breaks open, I never feel empty. A little glue can mend the cracks. No big deal.

Thank you, beautiful imperfect Buddha, for teaching me this lesson every time I see you on that loud, dirty corner of U.S.1.

First Day of School

Every day is first day of school. When I was a kid, I was so eager to grow up because I felt it would "mean something" to be a grown up, as if being a child wasn't enough, as if life was postponed, a recursive symphony.

If I could talk to my inner child as that impatient imp she was then, I would tell her to exist fully in the present moment. And she was, for the most part, when playing with her toys, but always, always she played with a gut feeling that something else -- something better, something luminous and exciting that would "change everything" -- was lingering around the corner. She was infinitely curious. And because of this, she felt there was always something lacking.

That's probably why I became a writer. I already had a story to tell. The blank page of life presented itself before me with overwhelming plenitude. Writers wouldn't practice their craft if they felt there was nothing left to say.

Little did I know my younger self, the star student, would eventually have to unlearn quite a few things. I would have to let go of many things that I once thought would give life meaning, so long as I held on tightly to those things.

Things, stuff ... the detritus of life. All the shit we can spare because it just doesn't fucking matter. All the crap that makes us feel as if we're missing out on something, when, in reality, we wouldn't be missing anything if we simply let go of everything that holds us down.

Then, one fine day, you hit the wall. That future you dreamed of with such enthusiasm arrives when you hit that wall. The real schooling begins when you break it down and it crumbles to the floor. Humpty-Dumpty, the wall, the whole thing, boom. Gone.

The best lesson comes from a silent teacher. You. You tell fear and scarcity to go fuck itself.

What's left is the child's spirit in an adult body -- the innocence of forgiveness, the wisdom of unconditional love. That little girl still plays with her toys -- jobs, a roof over her head, money problems, books still unwritten -- but she knows better. The future came and went and then so what?

Our bodies our born and our bodies die. Everything else in between is a glimmer of the infinite. The now is that thing that is luminous and exciting, worth holding on to, even though it constantly slips through our fingers.

Everyday is the first day of school.

A Peach is a Peach is a Peach

She sat in a bookstore, surrounded by millions of words that were suffocating her in the coffin of writer-for-hire, someone else’s word monkey. She thought to herself, the true value of writing lies not in words, but in the intention of the writer.

She reminded herself that some people wanted to burn books. She wanted to burn words. She could already see the flames of those words rise to the sky and disappear into the dark ether. She wanted to feel the heat of that cleansing fire and spread the ashes over the cloth of the universe.

 She longed for a world of fewer words, of short alphabets, of languages spoken without sounds, a world of kind glances, lingering caresses and simple joys.

She saw words where words were unnecessary, in gestures, sunrises, musical harmonies, rustling leaves, orgasms, the color blue, the smell of rye bread, the taste of honey and the figures of cave paintings. She saw words in many things and could describe them very well but asked herself why there was ever any obligation.



She could not, however she might try, drink water without a glass. She still had to wield a sword against letters, nouns, adverbs and figures of speech in exchange for paltry paychecks, asking herself again why there was still any obligation.

She knew what many wordmongers did not know, that the word had always been made of flesh and earth, sea and air, blind and silent energy.

She desired only words for the sake of words and nothing more. She read the braille of the heart, where words have no shape, sound or form.

The meaning makers had it all wrong. The meaning makers drowned themselves in this sea of endless words where words lost their meaning. The meaning makers were the true assassins of words. The meaning makers plundered the soul from words, laying to waste the value of words with their intention. The meaning makers sold the earth's bounty with their words and died by killing their own form of sustenance.

She closed her eyes and craved a world without adjectives where her tongue could simply have a secret affair with a peach.

She remembered a broken bank does not mean a broken spirit and with that, she took a bite of a peach.

The Fledgling

Photo via Teddy Llovet's Flickr.

A falcon is fledgling on the edge of a dizzying precipice, clumsily flapping its wings. Winds blow hard on the mountaintops, dropping and swirling through the valley below.

As my talons grip the nest, all I see is the infinite sky.

 I'm afraid. Mom’s shrill call echoes in the distance.

And then I woke up.

This morning’s sunrise greeted me with the thought that in two weeks I would celebrate my first birthday without my mother’s living presence on this earth. And although I’ll be 47 years young, it’s perhaps fitting to call it a first birthday.

Every year, she would tell me the story of how I was born. Never why. Just how.



The mundane details: how she packed her hospital bag early to avoid traffic in San Juan; how labor was not as painful as her first three births; how I peed on my brother the first time he held me in his arms; how my ears were pierced; how the delivery doctor told my dad "it's a boy" as a prank.

On the brink of 47, I think I know the “why” now. It’s a why that doesn’t need the clutter of words. It’s a why of soaring through vast open spaces, of being unafraid, of not staying stuck, of peace in the midst of chaos. A why of infinity.

A why of raptor birds perched on cliffs.

“I’m a fledgling too, Maria. I also took a leap into the unknown. Don’t be afraid of living. Don’t be afraid of dying.”

And with those words, my talons let go.

Happy first birthday, mom. It's yours just as much as mine.

There’s the Dishes and Then There’s the Dishes

I take pride in my humble little kitchen, the operative word being little. My imagination goes wild in this small space where I whip up memorable repasts.

Being single, I most often enjoy meals by myself. Food is my companion. It nourishes and speaks to my body. I like it. It likes me.

Last night's entrée was no exception. Salmon en papillote dotted with organic butter, encrusted with crushed black pepper and sesame seeds. On the side: curried cauliflower purée blended with almond and coconut milk. And of course, something green: sautéed kale with sun-dried tomatoes.

I slowly savored my meal while listening to two unlikely companions, Oprah and Pema Chodron on Super Soul Sunday. Pema spoke about embracing -- with an ever-expanding heart -- all that which makes us uncomfortable. Can you be present with your fears? Can you make room for your discontent?



After dinner, I was tired. A huge pile of dishes stood before me in the sink.

“Ugh.” I thought. “Can I be present with my fatigue? And for Pete’s sake, how can a meal for one person make such a mess?”



I sighed and put on my dishwashing gloves.



And then I chuckled through the suds.



As in dishes, so in life. You see, it’s not that I had an insurmountable number of dishes to clean. It’s just that the sink was too small for the joyful, messy abundance in my creative culinary life. I’m so happy in the kitchen. What else matters?

“Well, if only I had a bigger sink,” I thought.



And then I shook my head. “No what if’s, Maria. Just be present. Keep scrubbing.”


Maybe that’s what Pema meant: it’s not that we have insurmountable fears in life. It’s just that our hearts are too small sometimes to take it all in, fears and all -- those glorious messes that make a meal taste even better.



No wonder fears take a hold of us. They’re stuck in the chambers of a tightly bound heart, with nowhere to go.



Well, you know what? Hey fear: relax, sit down and have dinner with me.

Square footage be damned. Sure, I’d love a bigger sink someday. Heck, why not an enormous kitchen? But my little space will do just fine in this moment as long as my heart continues to grow in the only way it knows -- to infinity.



Photo by Lex on Flickr. Not my kitchen!


That Smile

I wonder what this little girl was thinking.

Why did she look so forlorn?



Oh, she was a sassy, spoiled kid. She hated having her photographs taken by doting parents.



But what if, somehow, she knew then what she knows now?

Did she know that she’d fall in love in high school? That she’d leave the love of her life almost a decade later, because she was too young to get married and wanted to find herself?

Did she know she’d have an amazing but financially troubled career as a writer? That she’d follow her heart’s passion at whatever cost, that she’d make people laugh, cry, think, that she’d help friends and foes, that she’d sometimes write words to blind eyes and speak words to deaf ears?

Did she know that one of her lovers would rape her?

Did she know she’d get pregnant in her forties and lose that child?

Did she know she’d become a mother to her own parents, that she’d have to give up everything in her life to take care of them and put them in hospice less than a year after losing that child?

Because if she did, if she could foresee, a tiny glimpse, an oracle in a little body wearing a colorful frilly dress, then I can now understand the expression on her face, that beautiful face, still so fresh, young and promising.

The decades have somehow spared me of wrinkles, but she’s not, of course, what I see in the mirror now.

But I see her clearly in my heart. Her sorrows, her fears, her joys and dreams are all imprinted in that invisible mirror inside, that photograph you cannot see, yet you know indelibly.

And she still wonders: what’s going to happen?

I want to change this face.

After a moment of passion, some lovers have said to me: “Maria, that smile.”

There he is, lying on top of me. He’s still inside of me. We’re sweaty. We’re spent. His eyes gaze into mine while I am beaming, my body floating in plenitude while muscles quivering.

That smile is a gift to the world and to myself, not just to any man who is my lover. It is a smile of gratitude, of pleasure, of joy in being embraced. That smile is the gift of love and compassion. That smile is everything that comes from my heart to everyone I have ever loved and supported in any way. I even bequeath that smile to those who have judged me.


Fret no more, little girl.

You know why you haven't got crows feet around your big blue eyes, child? Because you haven't smiled enough.

And as I help my parents end their lives -- it was their passionate sexual embrace that brought me into this world, after all -- I’m going to bring a very mindful and heartfelt smile back to your beautiful face.

Book Review: Thumbs Up for Hitchhiking with Larry David

I rarely do book reviews, but I couldn't pass up on this one. And besides, it has been a long time since I had something nice and hard in my hands that was so intellectually stimulating! Good lord, I spend so much time wrangling words, I rarely have time to tune out the world and read a BOOK, an actual book! 

So here goes ...

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of spending an extraordinary hour on the phone with an extraordinary man, Paul Samuel Dolman, author of Hitchhiking with Larry David, which recently came out in hardcover by Gotham Books.  Dolman had originally self-published in soft cover and the publishing house picked up the book.  That's a great story on its own.  If you are in the world of publishing, you know that's like a fragile soft shell crab becoming a long-lived hard knocks tortoise.

But I digress.

First, the book.

The memoir tells the tale of a former music industry executive who ditches corporate life after experience heartbreak with a woman who left him when things got rocky. He really couldn't commit or put his full heart in it, let alone put a ring on it. He heads to Martha’s Vineyard -- where his Florida family owns a summer home -- for a summer of self-discovery.

Now ladies, before you cry “asshole,” Dolman doesn't come across that way. This is totally a chick book.

An avid cyclist, Dolman sometimes opts for hitchhiking when his legs get tired (imagine those legs!) and meets many interesting folks along the way.



The narrative is chock full of endearing anecdotes and flashbacks that make the reader an “accidental tourist” in Dolman’s mind. Think of it as a portal into someone else’s memories, like Being John Malkovich, only this time it’s Being Paul Dolman.

Larry David, the sardonic humorist and creator of Seinfeld and Curb Your Enthusiasm is one of the famous guys who picks him up on the winding roads of the island.

Paul Samuel Dolman (left) and Larry David. 

But it's not just about hitching rides.  Dolman also bumps into Ted Danson and Meg Ryan throughout the summer at the various coffee and pizza shops he frequents.  He’s got a penchant for pizza and when you ride a bike for miles on end, you can get away with it.

Enter stage left, some oddballs: for example, a laid-off homeless woman and a Wall Street guy who drives a vintage Mercedes.


And then meet Dolman’s parents: a mom who suffers from dementia -- boy, I can relate to that -- and a sometimes reticent father.  Dolman's way of describing the relationship with his parents is witty, but also poignant.  Anyone who has visited a parental household full of tchotchkes and eccentric but somehow endearing dysfunctional behaviors will appreciate his way of describing home life.

Yes, this middle-aged guy found himself living with his folks for a while, down in the dumps, but high on spiritual ground. The book begins with rather mundane but entertaining details and then builds up to a crescendo of spiritual insights -- all this without getting too granola and farting rainbows, if you know what I mean.  Dolman keeps it real.

The book is also a travelogue of sorts. I went to Martha’s Vineyard many moons ago to go sea bass fishing and it was an experience I’ll never forget. This book brought the island’s beauty back to life for me.

The fact-checking Nazi in me wanted to know about the transparency of this memoir.

“I didn’t embellish because I felt like I was dealing with live humans,” said Dolman. “But through editing there was a tightness that normal life doesn’t have. A lot more crazy stuff happened that didn’t make it into the book.”

Although the book’s title includes the name of a Hollywood celebrity, it really isn’t all about that.

“We place a strange value on celebrity and fame,” Dolman continued. “But things happen in our lives that are really cool and it just seems more cool if it simply involves a famous person.”

Putting star-struck surreal encounters aside, Dolman writes about focusing on the present, being in the now and enjoying random interactions with people from all walks of life. Or eschewing sitcom reruns in lieu of a simple sunset, which really isn’t so simple, if you stop to think of the amazingness of it all.



How does that magic happen?

“If you tune in, are quiet and aren’t texting, you create space and pay attention to extraordinary things unfolding before you. You start listening to things,” he said.

“Oh,” I replied. “You mean like the Little Prince? Just a simple boabob tree and an elephant?”



“Yes,” Dolman confirmed. “Well said!”



And you do get that sense of wonderment and simplicity in this book, even as he humbly shares his raw and complicated feelings about his parents, his career and his heartbreak, which – I don’t want to spoil it for you – may or may not have taken a turn. In spite of my Mata Hari bat-my-eyelashes ability to poke and prod, he wouldn't budge. “Let's leave that for the sequel,” he replied.

Speaking of heart, this is a great read for anyone interested in honoring that organ that beats inside our bodies. 

A trained musician, Dolman played piano at bars in his earlier years.  The musical metaphor still resonates. “Listen to your heart, your song, not Larry David’s or anyone else’s,” he said. “Only you can find that.”

The book also touches upon the subject of career choices. Dolman had it all and gave it up because he felt like he was missing something – probably himself. (That's me talking, not the author.)



“It was hard to walk away from it because I had achieved so much,” he pondered. “Having a lot of money let me be generous with a lot of people. But there was a certain illusion of money, a sense of safety a security that wasn’t entirely fulfilling.”

Generosity seems to be what turns Dolman on.

There’s an episode in the book about a homeless woman that focuses on the pay it forward message.



“Giving is the best thing in the world,” he said. “Anyone can give, be loving and kind. Even mere eye contact is good.”

In a world of so much attention deficit disorder, Dolman seems to be practicing a kind of yoga of living.

At this point, I was simply rapt in conversation and forgot that I was interviewing, but I did get a few more nuggets.

“Some people have that frozen face, but you have to make the effort to weave through the rocks and get to the gold,” he said.

Nothing frozen about this face. The author, looking rather Hare Krishna like in golden light. I hope he put sunscreen on his noggin'.

It was starting to get too deep. So naturally, I turned to the topic of sex. Because, after all, this is Sex and the Beach, and we love beaches, islands and any romping that takes place near, on or in any body of water. Well, not just any body of water. Sewers and cisterns don't really count.

In Dolman’s book, there's one entire chapter dedicated to how he lost his virginity on Martha’s Vineyard. Imagine that -- the surf roaring nearby, the stars ablaze in the night sky and a soon to become legendary sleeping bag the only thing separating the couple’s naughty bits from the abrasive sand.

Ironically, the beach where the aforementioned epic copulation took place was called South Beach. Now you know, if this had happened in Miami, his wallet would have been stolen by the regular pickpockets (trust me, I know) and there would have been danger of infection from tossed heroine addict needles and plain old cigarette butts. In this case, the surroundings were apparently pristine -- not a bad place to pop a cherry or burst your nut for the first time.

But Dolman has also had some soul-searching encounters on beaches. One summer, with great hubris, Dolman dared to defy mother ocean. He almost brought it by going for a swim, in spite of rip tide warnings.

“I think that anyone who has ever felt the power of the ocean can relate,” he said.

I interjected his comments about nearly losing his life when this thought occurred to me. “You know, Paul, your book is like Eat Pray Love, written by a dude.”



He laughed.  “Yes, you're right! I hadn't thought of that.”



And it’s true. It’s a spiritual quest, dotted by carbs in the form of pizza and doughnuts, intense self-reflection, random teachers (read: people you meet just walking out the door), smelly skunks, and even memories of growing up in South Florida.

“Miami has changed a lot over the years,” I said. “What do you remember best?”

“Whenever I think about Miami, I light up inside,” he said. “When I grew up there, my best friend was a Cuban refugee. I watched the Dolphins at the old Orange Bowl. I loved Biscayne Bay, its green water. I used to fish in the Everglades.”

Of course, my heart skipped a beat when I heard fishing and Everglades in the same sentence.



Dolman continued.

“I loved Little Havana and the Cuban bakeries,” too.

So there you go, ladies: a charming, funny part-Jew, with a pleasant, deep voice, who appreciates life and all its wonders, who can bike for miles but still has a sensitive side, likes Cuban food and has a way with words. Pick up this book.

Of course, I would never recommend hitchhiking for women, especially in Florida. You know, we have some crazy drivers down here: i.e., that woman who got into an accident trying to shave her crotch with her spare hand on the steering wheel. I think Governor Scott should ban more than just texting and driving!

But think about ways we hitchhike every day -- in a spiritual way -- taking on random encounters with people, learning and observing, navigating energies, finding love and solace in even the simplest things.  Maybe it's just the scent of coffee. Or a luscious, juicy pepperoni pizza just dripping at the mouth.

I’ll end this interview with a quote from Derek Walcott and the inspired wish to return to Martha’s Vineyard, not to mention travel to many other islands. Sex and the Beach, after all, isn’t just about sex.
 And sex, as we know in tantric world, is just a means to an end.

Merely to name them is the prose
Of diarists, to make you a name
For readers who like travellers praise

Their beds and beaches as the same;
But islands can only exist

If we have loved in them.

Dolman has definitely loved on Martha’s Vineyard.  And if you love islands, you'll love this book.  Learn more about it here.

ANNOYING FTC DISCLOSURE

I got a free review copy of this book ... bla bla bla ... all opinions my own, of course, you damn big brother shits, whatever, all opinions are always my own! That's why they're called opinions!