Spiritual Cowgirl

Last weekend I attended an event that advertised itself as a celebration of 800 years of the Persian poet, Rumi. Most of us are quite familiar with this deliciously drunken red mystic (1207-1273). If you’re not, he’s a bestseller, easy to find. His prayers pamper post cards, CDs, calendars, t-shirts, jewelry, and most bookshelves. He’s popular these days for a variety of reasons, but the juicy pomegranate seed is that he reminds us how to be a True Lover – of another, our self, this world, the divine…all at the same time, via rapturous prose that makes every angel want to become human (or at least want to wine and dine one). Need an example?

“When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,

Like this?

If anyone wants to know what ’spirit’ is,
or what ‘God’s fragrance’ means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.

Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.

Like this?”

(Translation by Coleman Barks)

Bottom line: When Rumi’s knocking, every pore becomes a doorway.

Except at this past event. Now, I wish the event holders no ill will, I respect their ideas of what makes for a good Rumi celebration and I know these sort of gatherings are tricky to determine or control when opened to the public…but come ON people! These sorts of tame events make Rumi slap his head, roll his eyes, and set his pants on fire, and not in a good way.

How can you just sit there, nodding quietly, when you’re listening to Rumi’s words be read out loud? How can you not rip off your clothes, howl at the moon, laugh hysterically, goose your neighbor, sweat oceans, and dance till you drop? How can you keep your hands clasped and your legs closed when the divine is skinny dipping in your pelvis, slipping and sliding and roaring through your soul’s veins? How can you act contained and proper when his poems are meant to rub your inner thighs, his quatrains meant to lick between your toes, his sweet mouth of spirit meant to suck your neck none too gently? How can you act so la dee dah when flames are burning down your ego’s chariot? And p.s. where the hell was the red wine? The hollow reeds? The opened robes? The fragrant flower blossoms? The whirling and singing and caressing and frolicking bizness?

What? Too much? Not enough?

I’m just sayin’…and wondering…how can we hold so still and be so careful when red mystic poets, like Rumi, (or Neruda or Mirabai or Hafiz or Leonard Cohen) are touching our tongues and tickling our Ids? (this same question applies to exquisite symphonies, paintings, dance performances, orchids, eclipses, fine chocolate, a resplendent tattoo, and anything and everything that makes our spirit gasp)

I’ll venture some answers: Perhaps because we’re overly trained and too well maintained. Because our flesh has become too private, our movements too planned, monitored, and habituated. Because we’re embarrassed to let our heart’s run the show. Because our inner worlds have become too precious, our minds too controlling, our breath too shallow. Because we’re shy, distrustful, and forgetful of our true naughty numinous nature. Because we worry what others will think. Because we might get arrested or scare the neighbors or attract pollen. Or maybe I’m just speaking about myself.

Most certainly our religions, politicians, fashion magazines, social leaders and Brazilian bikini waxers (well, this last group at least tries to clear the runway) have gone to a lot of trouble (consciously or unconsciously) to hide the fact of just how necessary and redvelatory it is to take a wet and wild, romp and roll in the cosmic hay.

There was one saving grace at last weekend’s event: a lovely woman who was wearing a bright red dress (of course). It was clear she dressed the way Rumi made her feel. She used no book, only her body, spirit, and breath when she recited her favorite poems. This passion flower among the dry weeds dared us to read a Rumi poem everyday for the next 100 days - just to see what would happen. I wagged my tail in appreciation.

On that note: To all who continue to recite Rumi’s words (or witness other equally wondrous events) without acknowledging, or acting on, the authentic red reckless spirit that pulses passionately and playfully within, I have something to relay:

Ecstasy called. She wants her energy back. With interest.

The event wasn’t a total downer, at least I have the theme for my next party, and perhaps, now, you do too.

“The practice of Candamaharosana (try saying that 34 times fast)
Will not be accomplished by asceticism.
As long as the mind is not purified,
One is fruitless & bound by chains of ignorance.
One who, possessing desire, represses desire,
is living a lie…

Therefore, one who desires the Supreme Attainment
Should practice what is to be practiced.
To renounce the sense objects
is to torture oneself by asceticism — don’t do it!
When you see form, look!
Similarly, listen to sounds,
Inhale scents,
Taste delicious flavors,
Feel Textures.
Use the objects of the five senses-
You will quickly attain supreme Buddhahood!

When I teach avoidance of sexual union,
That is so that weak worldly beings will abandon it.
I teach whatever will mature worldly beings.
One & all will become Buddhas
By the dance of the magical displays of a Victorious One,
By various diverse methods.

In all the discourses & Abhidharma texts,
Women are disparaged,
Spoken for the sake of disciples of various capacities-
The real truth is taught secretly.

‘Why do the early disciples & others slander women?’
That is common to the early disciples & others
who live in the realm of desire,
Not knowing the path of liberation
That relies on women & bestows everything.”

-Sakyamuni, from the Candamaharosana-Tantra

(Paula Bronstein/Getty Images)

February 5th I did something women in Pakistan were told not to do. I voted. It was simple. I walked out my door wearing my tight yoga pants, my warm UGG boots, my hair blowing wild and free, and casually strolled a few blocks to my friendly welcoming SF voting station, which is actually created in the garage of a woman’s house. I cast my vote, received my red “I Voted! Have you?” sticker, planted it on my bum, and walked back home.

Not the case in Pakistan, especially with this epic last election this past week. In this currently unstable country where militants instill fear through bombs and violence, signs were placed around the towns warning men not to bring any females to the voting centers. The truth is, Islam gives women the right to vote. Extremists who reinterpret the Koran for their own political power and needs, don’t.

This is not new news. We hear endless stories of this type of misogyny happening throughout the world. But something about this picture, taken from The New York Times article struck me profoundly. This woman has to cover herself when she walks in public, making sure her hair, body, face are carefully hidden. Yet, here we see her beautiful hands, reaching out, casting her ballot. The courage is palpable.

And, it’s not anything I can ever even pretend to fully understand. Truthfully, I’m not sure if I would be brave enough to do what she (and a few hundred other women) did last Tuesday. I don’t want to dress her (even more) with sappy westernized spiritual ideas, but this image reminded me to take a good long look around my life and sink into gratitude. It reminded me to take a good long look at this planet and remember to rise with the Red. Offer support and service in any way I can.

So today, raise a glass, say a prayer, investigate international women’s rights movements, scream, cry, laugh, walk down your street with little clothes on, and quietly or loudly say to all the intrepid Redvolutionaries out there: “thank you, brava, you are reminding this world of just how far we still need to go, and just how powerful the human spirit is when it acts in spite of fear.”

Speaking of apples, I’m being tracked lately by “red” deities: mythological and historical characters, spiritual outlaws, hilarious heretics, sexual temptresses, aching archetypes and seductive symbols. Everybody and everything that has been spiritually dissed, suppressed, perverted, abused, denied - in this world and the next - wants a piece of the red action.

Eve has recently arrived on my inner scene, whispering in my burning left ear that her red apple (although technically scholars of all things near-eastern have declared the apple a fig, but as an acute metaphorologist, akin to a meteorologist but with better outfits, I’m holding the red apple) was truly, the first red pill (unashamed Matrix reference). I’ve always suspected this redvelation and that’s why this symbol will play a fundamental role in our Redvolution film.

Can’t you just re-imagine it? The “evil” snake, which by the way was a classic symbol of the goddess in near-eastern cultures, and well, in many cultures around the world (sorry phallic Freud), seductively sliding up to Eve and whispering:

“psssst, hey there sweet sssista, did you know you have the right to know this world, this universe, others, and most importantly, your self, your divinity, your truth, your knowledge, your power, your light, your dark, your sexuality, your flesh, your taste, your orgasm, your brilliance, your fire, your messy magic mighty mojo? Not only the right, but the responsibility? And get this: you can only truly know all this via lived experience. But in order to start the journey you gotta stop playing this whole infantile innocence game, get out from under the tree of your ‘Big Daddy’ and take the first steps towards becoming a spiritual adult. Take a bite of freedom, grab a fig leaf, and let’s blow this joint.”

Then I imagine a pregnant pause. A holy hush. An intuitive nod. And Eve, for the first time in her previously curtailed existence, getting a twinkle in her eye, a red flush in her cheeks (both sets). She slowly reaches out, extends her left arm, plucks a bright red apple from the tree, raises it to her moist and open mouth, and takes a huge, juicy, loud bite – the noise of which can be heard throughout all of existence, thoroughly, and completely disturbing the Universe. The result of this brave act causes all illusions to “fall”.

Or something like that.

(P.Ssss. The two first ladies are often depicted with red hair and snuggling up close and comfortable with a serpent, our undercover Super She)

Something else to play rough with: snakes are associated with hissing, ssss sounds. God. Goddess. Priest. Priestess. Prophet. Prophetess. I love how the divine feminine sounds. Well, at least in English.

(”Lilith” by Date Gabriel Rosetti)

When Eve’s chomping apples at an inner party, Lilith is never too far away. Are you familiar with Lilith? According to some Hebrew texts (specifically The Alphabet of Ben Sira), she was Adam’s first wife. She was not created from Adam’s rib, in fact, in some Kabbalistic texts, it’s indicated that she was already created, already alive and kicking when Adam came along.

What’s the down-low about Adam’s first lay? Well, she didn’t like following directions, obeying orders from her man or “The Man,” and she refused to be “on the bottom” during sex (truly, this is in the texts). When a frustrated and whiney Adam tattled and asked his Daddy to make his wife obey him, I bet Lilith responded with: “F—k this! I’m outta here. You call this paradise? My ass (which you can’t even properly grope when we’re doing it missionary style). See you two on the other side. Oh yeah, don’t call, don’t write, don’t pretend to know who I truly am till you’re ready to embrace what you have so carefully and deliberately repressed”. And off she sashayed to the Red Sea (again, it’s in the texts), which became her fave hangout spot.

Why don’t we hear so much about our feisty sexually empowered first red lady who scared the rib outta Adam? Because she was, as so many red characters and spiritually and sexually liberating energies are, shoved into corners and labeled evil. In fact, she was made into a demon by those in control (historically linked to Lilitu and Lilu, which were demons in ancient near-eastern cultures. She was also historically associated with the ancient goddess Inanna and referred to as Inanna’s handmaiden, priestess, and sexual prostitute. Oh yeah, these tales are so wickedly sticky red). In Jewish folklore she is described as a witch, a sexual temptress, a barren woman who makes men have wet dreams and delights in stealing little children.

After Lilith “flew” out of Eden a disgruntled, confused, pediatric Adam asked for another companion. So God created Eve from Adam’s rib with the hopes that the second attempt would produce a more subservient and proper wife. Yeah, that projection was quickly swallowed. Our traditions repeatedly underestimate the necessity for wholeness, for liberation, authentic self knowledge (gnosis), the erotic spirit, the beloved flesh, body glitter and spicy hot chocolate (all of which are needed for true Union).

As for the divine’s third attempt at creating the “ideal” woman…? Look in the mirror. Smash external projections. You’re up. Will you take a juicy red bite? Let us hear you.

I had quite the Lupercaliscious birthday last Friday. Aphrodite, Isis, Mary Magdalene, Cybele, Pan would’ve been proud. I was pampered and soaked in some lovely red experiences. First on the “sera day of love”, my sister took me to a yummy lunch and then to get foot reflexology…I think I started drooling. There is nothing that relaxes me more (well, in terms of platonic bodywork) than having my feet rubbed. Also helps to ground my airy sometimes fairy self. My amazing sis also gave me a wonderful shiny red “rosary” as a gift.

Next on the birthday agenda was a manicure pedicure courtesy of another lovely sister - bright red of course. I had a yummy dinner with dear friends and sipped a gorgeous blood red orange vodka drink. Later we merged into a very luscious party, appropriately called Sensualite.

(en route to the party helping tie my friend Tara’s corset)

Then things got real interesting.

I got to dance on a stage as a demo girl with my amazing Alexander Technique teacher (who was offering a fabulous dance class at the club).

Then two sexual priestesses created a beautiful ritual, offering blessings, mantras, clearings, and lots of mystical magic rrred love. The one I was blessed by is named Bast..she gave me a bright red apple. I proceeded to walk around to strangers and offer them a juicy red bite.

Soon a half-naked man asked me to draw on his bare chest with a red marker. Then someone was holding a stack of large red cards and asked me to choose one - I grabbed one, turned it over to see the word “YONI” printed on it. Uh huh…Gotta love SF.

Good fortune really is following me around like a drunk monkey in a little red dress. The sacred feminine sure is revving up my internal engines, reminding me through direct experience how she delights in our pleasure, our fun, our human divineness. I hope you all had a wonderful Lupercalia and now have a few new ideas for how to celebrate next year.

Soak on.