Stop Being Mean to Yourself: A Story About Finding the True Meaning of Self-Love (15 page)

I connected with and learned to take care of my body
,
understanding its intricate connection to the soul
.
I was on estrogen therapy for hormone
replacement and vitamin therapy for nutritional support
.

After my son died
,
I stayed with my grief
,
every gut wrenching
,
heartbreaking
,
mind
shattering moment of it
.
Then I worked through my grief
,
finally
accepting the life time handicap of the loss of my son
.

I went on to peruse the Course in Miracles
,
where I learned with Marianne Williamson
'
s help about the magic of love in all its myriad shapes and forms
,

diligently remembering that love also included saying
"
no
"
and sometimes
"
get away
."

At last
,
I opened my heart
.

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Then
,
climbing the ladder of spiritual growth
,
I put my foot on the next rung
.
With the rest of the nation
,
I read
,
spellbound
,
Betty Eadies Embraced by the
Light
,
awestruck by the mystery of life after death
.

I loved that book
.
But I still didn
'
t understand the mystery of life before death
.

I was still looking for that key
.

Over the years
,
as a result of my search
,
my values had changed
.
Whereas I used to fantasize about gold and diamonds
,
I now accumulated and treasured
beautiful rocks
—
lapis lazuli
,
shimmering crystals from the Himalayas
,
amethyst
,
rose quartz
,
watermelon tourmaline
.
These were now my precious gems
.
I
used oils and aromatherapy
.
I chose my colors carefully
.
I avoided polyester like the plague
.

But sometimes
,
in the middle of the night
,
I still wondered
,
should I just give in
,
join the rest of the world
,
and start taking Prozac
?

I knew I wasn
'
t alone in my search
.
Most of the people I knew were on a similar quest
.
They were looking for the key
.
Some purported to have it
,
but they
charged so much for their seminars I wasn
'
t willing to attend
.

The year before this trip to the Middle East
,
I spent three months traveling to sacred sites around the western United States
.
I soaked in some of the most
potent
,
healing
,
mineral
laden hot springs in this country
.
I visited the vortexes of Sedona
,
the ancient Anasazi village in Chaco Canyon
,
and the
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blessed New Mexican church
,
the Sanctuario de Chimayo
.
I gazed upon rocks and ruins and waterfalls and rain forests
,
absorbing that energy into my soul
.

I should have been glowing in the damn dark
.

It felt as if I were in a tunnel
.
Occasionally
,
I would get glimpses of light
.
But in those moments I felt more blinded than I did embraced by it
.
Most of the
time
,
I couldn
'
t see what I was doing or where I was going
.
I didn
'
t understand what this entire excursion was all about
.

Many of the therapies
,
people
,
ideas
,
and resources I stumbled onto over the years had genuinely helped
.
While some endeavors were feel
good activities
(
they felt good while I was doing them but didn
'
t affect me that greatly overall
)
and a few schemes
,
such as using drugs
,
had impaired me
(
I had to later
spend time and money undoing the damage I had done to myself
),
most of these undertakings had caused a permanent
,
beneficial change in me and in my
life
.

But I still couldn
'
t find the key
.

I couldn
'
t unlock the door and get in that room
.

I couldn
'
t find enlightenment
.

Sometimes I
'
d think I
'
m almost there
,
I
'
m on the edge of it
,
I
'
m so close to a breakthrough I can feel it
.
Then I
'
d make a run at that door and bam
!
I
'
d crash
headlong into it and fall in a crumpled heap on the floor
.
The door was still locked
.
At least it appeared to be
.
On the other side
,
a few feet away
,
just out
of reach
,
were the treasures I sought
.
But I couldn
'
t quite get to them
.

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I wasn
'
t necessarily depressed
,
but my spirit ached
.
Sometimes it was a dull agitating pain
.
Other times
,
it was closer to anguish
.
I was so grindingly
dissatisfied
.
Life could be so disappointing
.
Here we were
,
approaching the millennium
,
this glorious
,
exhilarating time that so many people were buzzing
about
.
But it didn
'
t feel all that spine
tingling to me
.
It felt confusing and at times debilitating
.
I didn
'
t get it
.
I didn
'
t get the millennium
—
at least not what
it meant personally to me and the people I knew
.
I didn
'
t get what this entire undertaking was all about
.
I didn
'
t get enlightenment
.

At times it seemed like the harder I worked to gain understanding
,
the less I understood
.

Maybe tomorrow
,
I
'
d think
.
Maybe tomorrow I
'
ll find that key
.
It seemed as if enlightenment were always one day one step
,
one therapist
,
one book
,
one
healer
,
one something away
—
no matter what I did
.
I was becoming weary and skeptical
.

I wondered
.
Was I engaged in a legitimate truth
seeking expedition that was leading somewhere
?
Or were all these activities mere busy work
,
an
experiment in futility
,
some sort of punitive endurance test on a cosmic treadmill
?

Over fifteen years ago
,
when I was already well immersed in this quest
,
a trusted friend told me that the secret to life was simple
:
there was no secret
.
That
didn
'
t sound right to me
.
There must be one
,
I thought
.
I knew there was a key
,
although it promised to remain eternally out of my reach
.
Now
,
after all
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these years of searching
,
I was beginning to wonder
.
Maybe my friend was right
.
Maybe I was looking for something that didn
'
t exist
.

This day in Giza, I would find the key to unlock that door.

Essam hailed a taxi, and we wove through the streets of Giza plaza, making our way to a small shop located behind a hospital. We were in a part of the city I had not yet seen. The sign in the shop's window announced that we were at Nile River Papyrus. Essam told the driver to wait for him; then he escorted me inside. It was a tiny, narrow store. Almost every square inch of the walls was covered with Egyptian art that had been handpainted on papyrus.

"I will leave you here for one hour," Essam said. "Look around. See if any of the pictures speak to you. Remember, if you find any pictures you like, do not pay the marked price. Half, and no more. I will tell the shopkeeper that, too."

After speaking for a while in Arabic to the man behind the counter, Essam left. The papyrus merchant, a thin man who appeared to be in his early twenties, asked if I would like to see a demonstration of how papyrus was made. I told him I would. So he began to tell and show me the story of this ancient art.

In a land where few trees grow, the papyrus plant flourishes. About fortysix hundred years ago, ancient Egyptians discovered that if they cut the inner portion of the papyrus

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stalk into razorthin strips and soaked these strips in water, the strips could then be woven into flat sheets. After pressing and drying the sheets under something heavy, like a rock, the Egyptians could then make the same markings on these sheets that they had been, until now, dutifully carving in stone. Unlike rocks, these sheets could be rolled, stored, and easily transported. The ancient Egyptian civilization had stumbled onto a way to record, preserve, and disseminate ideas and information. Lighter than stone, papyrus paper revolutionized their world.

The shopkeeper showed me how the thin strips of pith, the inner portion of the stalk or reed, were sliced, soaked, then woven into a flat sheet. He showed me how the woven sheets were pressed and dried. Then he showed me the finished product—the ivoryyellow parchmentlike sheets called papyrus. He explained that papyrus can be drawn or written on using oil colors, water colors, coal, ink, a typewriter, or gouache (a form of watercolor paint). He showed me how easily the sheets can be rolled and stored in a cylinder.

"Go ahead. Look around," he said, when he finished his demonstration. "See if you like any of our pictures."

I walked to the far end of the store. Vibrantly colored pictures of all sizes covered the walls. The pictures were vastly different from the art I was used to looking at—

art that expressed an artist's rendition of a particular scene or a

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portrait. These pictures were simple onedimensional drawings, but they were hauntingly profound. Many of the pictures were implanted with hieroglyphic symbols.

Because of the large number of drawings and the difference in this art form, it took me awhile to focus.

Gradually, I shifted from looking at everything at once to studying the individual pictures. I saw many drawings of the pyramids and the Sphinx. I noticed an intricate astrological wheel with ancient Egyptian symbols. It was beautiful, but when I studied it, I thought about a friend of mine. It didn't really speak to me. I continued to look. Soon, I saw my first picture.

It was a simple drawing of the Virgin Mary holding the Christ child in her arms.

Mary wore a flowing blue gown. A golden halo encircled her head. The blue in her gown was of an indescribable shade and hue. The child she held was barefoot. A golden halo encircled his head, too. Both of them wore golden crowns.

I wasn
'
t now and had never been a member of the Catholic church
,
but Mary had become increasingly important to me over the past years
.
Her gentle
spirit
,
tender ways
,
and magnificent healing power had helped my heart to heal in a time when little else could touch me
.

She has the lightness and love of the angels and the healing power of her Son
.

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Her energy calms and soothes me
,
yet sometimes takes my breath away
.

I feel completely and utterly safe in her presence
.

I feel quietly empowered
,
confident
,
and strengthened
.

I also feel understood
.

She is the feminine side of the Divine
.

This picture spoke to me.

"I want that one," I said.

The young man took the picture of Mary and the Christ child off the wall and placed it on the counter. I continued to look around. Soon, another picture attracted my interest. It was an intricate weaving of people, hieroglyphics, and animallike creatures. It was long and narrow, about five feet wide and two feet high. I liked it but I didn't understand it, so I moved on. Something about this picture pulled me back. Noticing my interest, the merchant began telling me its story.