Larval Locomotion

I had a spiritual experience in my garden this evening. Now don't act surprised. You know I'm an odd one.

The pertinent background info is that I fought with Luke today. Recording vocals with him is worse than a round of tooth extractions with a pap smear chaser. I'm sure it's no cakewalk for him either, especially now that I've started my new book, Tantric Orgasm for Women by Diana Richardson, and I'm prancing around like a child, hurdling quotes at him like there's no tomorrow, largely on the subject of man's "lost ability to speak meaningfully to the female body." We haven't had to work this way in years, but my usual engineer was stolen for the month, and we didn't want to wait to finish the EP. Now it seems that we may have to.

After such a day of singing and crying and arguing, I found myself in my garden, foraging for tomatoes, as the green market tomatoes were somewhere in Luke's belly. I eyed two orange ones and deemed them good enough, as my salad could not wait. In searching out additional ingredients, I happened to spot a massive green caterpillar covered in ants. I love butterflies and the thorough transformation they signify (see Dr. Stanley's Native American Animal Medicine,) so I took it upon myself to assist the little creature. Ants would not devour my future butterfly friend. Not on my watch! I moved him near the eggplant, so he'd have its pretty purple flowers to admire.

After preparing my meal, I remembered that I'd meant to research the whole caterpillar/ant situation. To my horror, I came across one of the Animal Communication Project's pages, discovering that, without going into great detail, the species have a symbiotic relationship and that, in fact, the ants are very much critical to the survival of the caterpillars; the chance of one getting by without its ant protectors is zero.

I, in my limited understanding, had moved this very happy caterpillar from a good situation because I thought I could improve upon it, give it a nice view, shelter it from its seeming enemies. Marianne Williamson would say, "What arrogance to have assumed that you are better equipped to handle what nature orchestrates perfectly on its own!"

I had been so afraid for the future, for the next step, that I interfered in the metamorphosis of this would-be butterfly.

The ants also figure beautifully in this story, as they represent patience, cooperation, and community. My impatience is disrupting the natural flow, blocking the blossoming I seek. No wonder the fuzzy guy had looked so confused as I carried him across the yard. (Well, he did. I don't make this shet up.)

"No more meddling." That's my message from the universe. "We don't need your rescue efforts, Margot. We're taking care of it. It's all good."

I suppose I needed to be told twice, though, because, walking around in the dark, searching for him, wanting to make it right, I was reminded that this, too, lies outside my jurisdiction. It had already been made right. The caterpillar had moved, but it was too dark to determine where. Back to his friends, I trust. The ants that gladly blanket him tonight.

The Nasties

I'm done. I'm so over your nastiness, you nasty boys!

Wanna know why? Lemme share.

Last weekend I was getting ready for a birthday party. I put on a pretty little mod dress and experimented with a makeup concept demonstrated in the classic eyeliner video on the MAC website, using a natural mineral liner from Larenim instead. Yeah, I looked good, but whatever. I look good a lot.

So, the cable guy reached the door just as my mom was walking out, and she was audibly irritated that his timing threatened to interfere with her vacuum shopping. I told her I would stay until he was done, even though it would make me late. Why not? Well, as Mom can tell you, I have a history...

We had this conversation as she was downstairs in the foyer, and I was upstairs in my room, so I hadn't seen the man until he was done fiddling with some wires in the living room. He asked for permission to come up. Right away, he was ALL about me. It's always obvious. He asked if my internet was okay, glanced at the router, and peered through the window, mentioning he'd have to climb that pole down the street.

Okay, dude. Climb it.

When he came back in, he called me downstairs, and pulled that typical shet. There I was, counting the minutes until he would leave, while being bombarded with boring questions like "How old are you?" and "Do you have a boyfriend?" and "What are your plans this weekend?" Of course, I was leery from the start--that is, until the moment he revealed he had a wife, whereupon the reasoning mind suggested that my intuition pipe down. "He's married, see? Not a problem."

Well, this is why I'm not so fond of the reasoning mind: it was a problem. At one point, he walked over to me from across the room, grabbed my hands, gazed deeply into my eyes and told me how beautiful I am, and suddenly the ten feet that had separated us became two and then none. Yes, before I knew it, he'd gone in for a hug, and then he proceeded to SQUEEZE MY ASS. That's right.

I pulled away.

"You're married!!!"

"I know, but if I weren't, I'd take you away."

Take me away?!? Omg, no! No!!! It was disgusting, and, for a minute there, it threw me off. Then I remembered the self I'd momentarily forgotten. My posture conveyed a new message: I am no doormat. It was easy enough to decipher, even for someone so ridiculous as to engage in such unscrupulous behavior on Time Warner's dollar. I silently requested that the situation wouldn't escalate, and, except for an absolutely repellent request that I turn around in order to enhance his admiration of my curves followed by an ew-ewww yucky exiting kiss on the cheek and still more mumbling on my gorgeousness, it really didn't get any worse, and, in truth, he's lucky it didn't. A black eye would have upset his boss, and his broken ass would worry his wife.

And this was not the first time, either. Only a few weeks ago, Mom hired a plumber to fix Grandma's shower. It was a stressful time, and we were very grateful that he was able to do the work for us. He had been at our house for exactly one week when his birthday arrived. We'd told him to take the day off, but he refused, so when he showed up that morning, I apologized for my mother's not having made him a birthday cake. I mean, if it had been my birthday, I'd want my employer to give me a sweet treat or make a gesture of some sort.

"I thought YOU were gonna make me one," he tested.

"Oh, well, I meant to bake something, but I've been so busy."

"I thought you were gonna be in it." Straight-faced.

"That would present some logistical difficulties, no?"

"I could help you."

Awkward! Another married man, btw. Or at least that's what he told my Mom initially; his story happened to evolve as the days went by. Needless to say, after that, our interactions were certainly strained. He went on to ignore me, as I had not responded positively to the idea of popping out of a giant birthday cake I had baked for a stranger with a steady lady.

I can't believe what dudes do, but maybe I should start because it happens ALL THE TIME.

Even on the job. Among my personal faves is that time I recorded a song for some quirky project, and the engineer bought me a salad afterward, which I thought nothing of, as Luke and I used to share meals with our former manager quite regularly. I thought more of it, of course, when he called me early the next morning, hoping for a date. There wouldn't be one, I assured him, as we'd already discussed over lunch my re-connecting with an ex. In return, he refused to give me a copy of the song I'd worked on, so I had to buy it on iTunes when it was released two years later. And it doesn't end there, folks. Even some of my fans have sent me nasty mail. No, I'm not talking about those sweet compliments and silly flirty things. I'm talking digits and propositions. Yeah.

No more unwanted attention, s'il vous plaît! Ugh. I must evaluate my vibration. The boy hair is not making me invisible to the average man, as I'd hoped it would. Am I going to have to start being a bitch? Nah, I guess not, but some serious changes must be made, as I will not be entertaining such shenanigans in the future. I'm curious how all of you women out there steer clear of this manure, and I wonder if any of my more testosterone-driven readers can offer any insight on fending off the undesirables, but do NB: these recommendations should not come in the form of several prurient thoughts plus contact info. Merci beaucoup!

Comme une Fée

When we last spoke, I was down in the dumps. Its cause was more chemical than psychological, though, as I discovered several days later.

I'm mercurial for sure because the next day I felt wonderful again. Elements of joy and synchronicity began to repopulate my hours, and that's the way I like them. Certainly this is why I cannot tolerate anything less; I've grown accustomed to fantastic.

Perhaps it was a darkest-before-dawn scenario. Having released my fears, regrets, and resistance, there was an incredible freedom, a high I am still relishing.

I am happy. Electric. When I see butterflies and hummingbirds in my garden, I get even bigger chills than I used to. I'm letting people come and go as they please. I'm not engaged in molding and crafting a specific path and, in fact, have altogether abandoned my once religious interest in this. I'd rather chisel my insides and witness how the outside responds in kind. I am at peace with the present moment. In loving what is, I am able to savor small things in a much more intense way than I ever have. Last night, for instance, a simple brushing of my hand brought me such wildly enormous pleasure that I couldn't move, except to giggle like a schoolgirl. Such innocence. Such thorough surrender.

Perhaps my tantric practice has deepened without overt attention. My teacher does say that tantra has nothing and everything to do with sex. My now is so rich, so deep compared to what it used to be. To think it's only a tiny fraction of what it is quickly becoming...

When Mom is giving me shet, or Luke's parents are being unsupportive, I have instant compassion for them, and I don't take things personally anymore. If something rubs me the wrong way, I address the internal situation it brings up. Progress is made.

Before, when I thought I was living magically, I found myself taking life litmus tests at regular intervals. If something "bad" happened, I blamed myself for stepping out of my flow momentarily and cutting off my good, but that idea is out of alignment with real magic, which does not give the seemingly bad any power or credibility. A big breakthrough.

I recently recounted the following story to a dear friend who was in need of inspiration. As it begins, Mom and I are picking up one of my two adoptive Jewish grandmas from LAX. When we arrive, Grandma 3 is farklempt. She's been crying for hours, devastated over having lost some very precious jewelry given to her by her late husband. As she lamented the clumsy luggage search in waves of palpable grief, I sat in the backseat, wondering why I'd brought this into my experience. Like I said, my life's fantastic, and I don't need to hear about unpleasant things!

That was my first thought, emerging from my former misunderstanding of magic. Then the new magic asked a question. Why am I here right now? The answer was loud and clear. I am here to act on behalf of good.

As Mom was soaking up the drama, which, of course, is easy to do when you are surrounded by it, I was enveloped in clarity. I sent out a silent request that Grandma 3's jewels would be discovered, forming a clear mental picture of her being reunited with her pearls and her diamond watch. Sure enough, by trip's end, my intuition was shouting at me to check her bag. Once inside her home, we did just that, and, after having examined almost every inside pocket without success, we had a single zippered pouch left, and bingo!

Had I taken the situation as an indication that I was being a bad attractor, I wouldn't have had the sense to check her bag. Instead, I would have left bummed out by the episode after having said some sad goodbyes, under the assumption that Grandma 3 was effed, which she was not. Eventually, I'm sure, she would have found the jewels anyway, but her belief in their being gone forever was so strong, she wasn't open to finding them, and it would undoubtedly have cost her several sleepless nights. I fixed it in fifteen minutes.

So this is the newish me. But some things may not soon change.

Luke likes to point out that I don't move like an adult. I jump onto my bed at night like a child or plop down into it like a whale into foam, depending upon how tired I am. My speech is distinctly melodic. My hands are no bigger than a girl's, and I have the same body that I did when I was fifteen. My skull is miniature, so hats tend to cover my eyes. I don't walk normally either. I bounce and flit about like a fairy, but it's much more fitting now that I am light and free. My connection to experience has entirely shifted. To cull a memory from childhood as explanation, I am a young girl at her swingset, admiring her life in the breeze-borne parachute seed before her, crowned in buoyant silky tufts, delighting in its flight, in its alighting on the precise place for its thriving.