Throwing the divine tantrum

Today, I feel tired of my own advice. I feel like I’m in the room with a very young yoga teacher who somehow believes that if I can just free my mind to accept the divine in all things, I’ll be able to arch my back a little farther, stretch my sides a little longer, plant my feet a little more firmly. But I want to say in return, “maybe the holy in me would rather say in bed, would rather not feel in balance within all four limbs, would rather not open its heart and shine.” Some days, after all, doesn’t the divine want us to feel frustrated, to feel inflexible, unspontaneous, uncreative? Some days, doesn’t God want us to lose it?

In so many peaceful philosophies, the overwhelming consternation that has always been a part of human life is simply not accounted for. Or, when it is, it’s seen as a distraction, an illusion, something to slough off, the source of our pain and a deterrent to enlightenment. We are told we need to get over these unfaithful, non-divine feelings. That we need to let go and let God.

So why, I ask, is this striking of forehead against wall so common a human experience?

Let’s say there’s a God. I’m comfortable with that supposition. Let’s also say, as the gurus of the ages tell us, that God is benevolent and kind, God is love, God is out there working for us. (If you’re a believer in the self-propagandizing The Secret, then you know that the “Universe” - a more salable word for God, the divine in all of us, Krishna, Alla, the great I-am-who-am - is basically a big Robin Williams-esque genie waiting for us to realize that all we have to do is ask for what we want and presto! The divine drive-up window.) If we suppose that God, by whatever brand-name you purchase it, wants us to be happy, and has made happiness and divinity not only available but attainable, then why does so much of human life at times feel like a stubbed toe?

This is not the paradoxical question of evil in the world. This is the question: “If our lives are meant to be divine, why doesn’t calm and serenity and wisdom come in equal measure with frustration and desire and - let’s face it - obtuse clumsiness?” I think the bone I have to pick is: are we favoring some human experiences over others? Are we shaping the divine based on what we rarely have, rather than what we know?

I am nervous as hell to go back to teaching. I want to whine about it and complain about the thanklessness of the job. And when some part of wedding planning goes awry, I want to cry or yell or tear into shreds the wickedly expensive estimate from the caterer. Now and then I want to just be a baby about things, to curl up my fists and pout and stomp around. I want these things, but the wise, non-judgmental, yoga-body me says tsk tsk before I even get a chance.

But there’s the thing. That I want to throw a tantrum or be jealous or feel resentment or tell someone off or say to someone “because I’m older and I know better, that’s why” makes me think that maybe there’s some validity to the impulse. And not just an impulse toward childish behavior, but the impulse to feel feelings that just aren’t so hot. Feelings you hide from your priest and fellow parishioners, feelings you grin through in yoga class.

What if these feelings and impulses are just exactly as divine as the happy-happy zen shoved in our faces by ten-cent gurus every day? (Something that amazes me is the willingness with which many Christians take Jesus’ own brattiness in stride. That boy could holler! But we have no trouble seeing his every action, his every step and misstep, as divinely aligned.)

So, how about a new philosophy? You are divinity. No matter what. When you eat too much, when you swear in front of children, when you can’t take your loved ones’ charming idiosyncracies any more, when you trip, when you poop, when you want to stay in bed, when your yoga shorts make your ass look big, when you don’t get your oil changed even though you know you should, when you get a speeding ticket, when you choke, when you fall. Every experience a divine experience. Every experience good and worthwhile. Even the gagging on your own good advice.

Expecting cake and gypsy mermaids

Every morning, I push myself out of bed to the sound of anxious, happy whines from the smallest dog in my pack, little dachsy-cockapoo Eliot. I groggily but carefully step down the stairs while Eliot and the middle dog, golden-yellow Rupert growl and play in the living room, waiting for me to get them - and their eldest brother, wolf-like black Max - to the back door. There, they sit and wait atop three little steps, quivering with excitement and anticipation, for me to say “okay.” Then, as if it were a new thing every time, as though Christmas has come or today is another tenth birthday party, they scamper out into the yard with smiles on their doggy faces, and set to playing.

No matter how many times we reenact this ritual, these dogs approach it with the same measure of jittery expectation and abundant joy.

Two days ago, I did something I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll regret. I accepted a teaching assignment for a class I’ve never taught before and that starts in less than a week. I have something like five days to prepare all the materials - syllabus, schedule, assignments, readings, and other media and texts - and to do whatever it might take to psych myself up to teach in the classroom, something I haven’t done for over five years. The preparation time seems a little, well, insufficient. I feel a bit as though I have guests arriving in half an hour, the house is a mess, and they’re expecting cake.

I take teaching very seriously. To me, there is no greater responsibility outside of parenting. The human mind is so easily abused or confused, but also so easily encouraged and fortified. Teachers are the other people - after parents - who manipulate growing, grasping minds. So, teaching becomes not just about imparting skills, it becomes about filling student minds (and yes, hearts) with confidence and curiosity, helping them learn how to learn - not just to pass tests and assignments - and to equip them with the tools and strategies they can use to avoid the traps - of low self-esteem, of frustration, of feelings of inferiority and incapacity - that others and they themselves lay too readily.

My friend and teaching mentor, Jesse, likes to think about teaching as though he is planning a party, bringing to the table the games and favors, and letting people play. Today, I’m thinking teaching is like my and my dogs’ morning ritual. At my “okay,” the door opens and everyone bounds into the sun, rolling about on the grass.

Planning for that, though, takes a little doing. Or does it? Matt told me yesterday it was good I have so little time to plan. There’s no time for second-guessing myself. At the same time, it means I have to do a certain amount of letting go. I have to trust the process. I have to have my own confidence, my own quivering anticipation, and I have to avoid traps I lay for myself so regularly and so well.

It’s as though I’m setting sail with twenty people aboard. I think I remember how to navigate, but I can’t be sure. And I only have a vague notion of where we’re headed. What I do know is that all of my passengers know inherently how to sail, too; in fact, they’re all experts just waiting for their chance. But I have to be careful, out there on the open seas, not to put too much pressure on them, or on myself, to reach the destination I have in mind. There are many suitable destinations, full of happy, welcoming villagers, delicious coconuts, and beautiful beaches.

As well, in my fear that we may run aground on some deserted place, or that our vessel may sink, or that some of my passengers may develop scurvy (okay, maybe that takes the metaphor too far), I don’t want to forget to point out the wonders of the sea: laughing sea lions, gypsy mermaids, and singing behemoth whales. After all, sometimes (or usually), sailing is the point, is the destination.