My Enlightenment

I intend to give everything to the Buddha, except that He eschews material possessions. Bastard. He should know that in giving I'm really receiving, and it's in a big way spiritually. So big. I will learn that in foisting off my stained towels and broken crockery on the needy, or the standing still (whichever,) there is liberation and release from the petty materialism and- I dunno- the unseemliness that comes with owning an entire decades' worth of "Best Of Kids Bop (Volumes 1 through XXVVIVILXVVIIIIXLX".) I wait for this slough of unseemliness, despite scripture's completely unclear position of giving unto the poor stuff they could actually use as opposed to giving them my vast collection of identical-yet-unmatchable black socks, or my Garfield vibrating head massager. (Too late, everyone: I gave it gratis to a passing five-year-old at a yard sale; it had attracted many a tester but not one offer.) I think it's all about the interpretation, because what group of broke peoples would reject such splendorous flotsam? Much of it is shiny, for God's sake!

I'll be casually walking down the street and I'll see someone with a shopping bag full of half-spent alkaline batteries, and my soul will get a little lighter knowing that I was the person who half-spent them, removing them from the remote the very second they falter and throwing them into the pile in the back of the fridge (note: that keeps them "fresher." This way, when you're done punishing them, you can take them out, blow on their little ends, and use them again. They learned their lesson.) I'll be eating my Thai food with my daughter at the nearest Thai place that still has lunch specials, and someone at the next table will be wearing the almost-lavender fleece half-zip with the unresolved grease spatter on it and I'll get just a bit closer to understanding the fullness of the universe. When I drive I might go past a person on their own quiet street, rearranging the cannibalized back issues of my favorite feminist magazine in the hopes that they might sell them for a few quarters- and I might rejoice in the weightlessness that comes with the shedding of one's long-held stuff. Finally I'll see, with initial disbelief followed with the appropriate amount of awe, a child with a pot-holder loom and three cloth loops and the long, potentially eye-poking bent rod that comes with it, and Nirvana will open its' doors (or I'll fall into it? Is there a swim involved? No one around here talks about how, exactly, you get into Nirvana. With Heaven there's a door, or gate, or horse jump, I think, and a big Soul that still looks like a person who judges you on the spot. I'll have to research it.)

In Nirvana, I'll walk up a golden flight of water lilies to a giant, happy Buddha with rosy gold cheeks and on one side of his head is a rosy gold lever (I'm at one with the Universe, now, so the lever could be on either side, or every side, or none...I can't wait!) When I grab hold of this lever- and it feels like grabbing hold of stardust or praise- I'll pull it down, and chunk chunk chunk! The Buddha's eyes will roll around and around until they come to a stop: three gold bars will glow contentedly in His three eyes (I know He only has the standard issue amount of eyes on his statues and all, but again: Me + Universe= Understanding. I am so stoked!) So, Big Buddha Head will open it's enormous smiling mouth, and I'll have to step back  and he'll have to say "Oh, sorry, didn't see you there-" before he begins vomiting money at me. I think it'll happen because He knows that I've renounced all my material goods (notwithstanding how good the goods may be) and so I'll be impervious to the power of all that cold cash. He knows I'll take it and won't want to immediately spend it on hair extensions for the cat and rare DVDs of depressing director's cut slaughterhouse documentaries or really nice confetti. I can squat down and rake up all the money pooling at my feet and put it in my shirt-bottom, apron-style, and wink at His Holiness, who will wink back and say "Come again tomorrow." I know he'll mean it, too, because he never invites random people to pull his lever because, on some level, it must hurt.

This will be fantastic. I hear that the outdoor markets in Cambridge are legendary for their assortment of T-shirts in subdued colors with "Cambridge" on them, and crepes because it's practically in France, and something called "bootlegs". I'm not sure what those are, but it won't matter; Buddha and I are buds and he will remind me while I'm negotiating with the nice man in the leather blazer for the Jabba the Hutt cookie jar...he'll let me know that it's OK to be collecting more stuff for my new home, because if I let go of my insignificant household items once, I can do it again.

Professional Help

It had become painfully clear: I was not going to get through this without a professional. The clarity of my position had dawned on me while I was down, laying on my couch or recliner or bed or whatever, occasionally gasping because I'd hurt myself in Aquasize (those weights are evil underwater- lulling you with their Styrofoam ends- I use the red ones and I pull a neck tendon every other time- I'm not weak- don't judge me!) I was really hurting in my joints; it was taking me whole minutes to remember what I'd been thinking about just a second before (what was I thinking about? I just had it...oh, it's gone...what's gone? What was I thinking about?) and I was vigorously picturing a scenario where I hurt myself permanently- I had it down to the description of the physical therapist whose job it was to say "There ya go! Look at you go, girl!" when I lifted my arm to shoulder height for the 20th time, slowly, slowly regaining the range of motion I'd lost from posting three letters all at once. Meanwhile there was a house to ship or sell or disassemble on to people's yards and post on internet sites.

And so I hired myself a Gal Friday for fifteen bucks an hour but no health insurance because this isn't Starbucks, you know. I heartily recommend it. You can ask them to do all sorts of random things, like vacuum or inventory or respond to fan mail (Dear ______, Thank you so much for your heartfelt words. I felt them in my heart, and so I know that adjective works there. You really got me thinking about _____. I feel like there's a play in there somewhere, with me as the lonely/determined/lobotomized (please circle one) Woman, and I'm fighting _____ with my _____. If you feel like it, you can write that play! Don't worry, my lawyers will find you. They are there in service of my very best fans. Until our day in court, I remain- Hearttbreakinly, Jenn.) I've asked my Gal Friday to do complicated information  searches that involve phone calls to Bearaus, and what makes me happy to recommend her for employment for anything is that she made those calls and isn't in therapy (as far as I know. She could be, but I wouldn't know- see second paragraph, first sentence vis-a-vis health insurance.) This flexibility in tasking is making me greedy, I think.
 
Is it too much to make her wash the windows I've been studiously avoiding since I bought my house? Is it demanding to ask her for her help in examining my infected pinkie toenail? Will I go so far as to ask her to "give me a hand" going through embarrassing bank files from the 1990's and then just sit there telling her inane stories about my years starring in horrifically adapted Shakespeare in Pennsylvania while she pages through them? Now, before I'd found this wunderkind I would have thought No. No, it's improper to ask your employee to sort through your various mystery tubes of ointment that you've collected over the years. No, a person would have to be a cad to ask a paid hand to rub their daughter's feet for an hour. No no, one really shouldn't drink bottom shelf vodka- neat- while you pay a person to fake your voice so they can tell your Visa card collections agent to go fuck themselves sideways (although they did call me, so...) Pre-GF I would have made the ethical judgement every time, or at least every other time; now I'm not sure those things are terrible. Not terrible terrible, you know- maybe a little horrid, sure, but they get paid, right? They are getting recompense for the humiliation and bankruptcy of the soul that comes with such mean menial work, are they not? This is America, after all. There's always someone else to take their place.

To counter the possibility of a creeping Republicanism in my relationship with my new friend, I will have to be vigilant: I'll have to make sure that I offer snacks; I'll have to take a genuine stab at being productive myself while she's here, even if that only involves dishes. I'll have to make sure there's excellent beer on hand for end-of-shift happy half-hours. What has really been highlighted for me by this relationship is the knowledge that I'm a lucky, lucky person: I have a chronic pain condition, and I have to finish up every job of the eight billion jobs there are to do before I move myself and my child across an ocean, and I have to parent said child- But. I have the resources to pay someone a little bit (not enough, of course; also I would have liked to offer dental,) and that means it can be done. Or done enough. Not many folks in my condition have that option. I'm grateful, and I've learned that if you are your own Gal/Guy Friday, follow the steps above (offer yourself snacks, be as productive as you can, beer), because you deserve it. Everyone does.