MOLLY, TRADEMARK

Song Rec: I Shot The Sheriff

Artist: Eric Clapton

Album: Time Pieces

Friday night making my way home from a friend's play in the East Village, I get on the L train in the same car as a heavily sunburned, dirty, tattooed man who is obviously high. Mr. High begins to have a loud argument, angrily, with nobody (at least nobody visible). The passengers near him inch away. At Lorimer stop, doors open and most people get off, but the man sits down next to me, still shouting and calling out.

Before the doors close again into the car comes a tall black man, slender, peaceful looking in a dark blue collared shirt, with a guitar hung on a strap around his neck. He reminds me of Robin Hood and I think: he needs a cap with a feather. He is playing for money, and the selection is I Shot The Sheriff. It doesn't take him long, though, to hear the man next to me cursing and shouting and interfering with his song.

Guitar Man pauses, thinks. He sits himself in between me and the angry man. He starts to sing to the man as though he were sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, serenading the patient. I shot the sheriff...but I did not shoot the deputy!

The drugged-out man stops calling wildly to the space around him and listens to the music for a few moments as though hearing something he has forgotten. Then he starts to sing himself- they sing together.

I watched, downloaded this experience into my being.

- - -

Fast forward. I call mom to remind her I’m here.

Mother: "What's new?"

Daughter: “Just took a yoga class. I'm walking up 6th avenue, from Soho to Chelsea, it's muggy and warm, and I just ran in to Megan and Dave!"

Mom: "Oh. ok."

There's a funny silence on the end of her words that makes me dig around for something more to say, such as "I got a new gig that I start this week" or "I just found out I’m doing x-and-such, and it’s a big honor." Something in my life that she will find exciting...

I think back to my experience on the train and consider telling her about it. Will she feel how I felt? Will she say, "Wow, that is so fucking beautiful,” ?

Probably not. So I find a subject we can both partake in- her upcoming trip to New York City (she can’t wait to go to the Botanical Gardens and a restaurant called Peasant).

I get that it’s hard to understand how a mere yoga class or walk through New York City during a pause in a rainstorm could be that exciting. But these days, even the sound of rain pattering on my window excites me. And yes, those 10 minutes on the L train pumped more life into me than any other part of my week.

I attribute this “change of tastes” to the yoga practice. It’s just part of what yoga does- trains you to see life with different eyes, hunger for different food, soul-food instead of mind-food. These small, daily things make a part of me deeply happy, and I’m starting, slowly, to spend more time in that part. See, the Spirit (or soul) just wants to feel ALIVE. The Spirit wants to EXPERIENCE.

(Whereas, we know what mind’s jam: I AM MOLLY. MOLLY MOLLY MOLLY…trademark).

Where I am now, every day is a mixture, an odd-flavored smoothie of Spirit and Ego. The whole game is in one moment of teaching: my mind is worried whether things are going ok, but another part of me doesn’t give two shits whether ‘things’ are ok… are YOU ok?!? DO YOU FEEL ALIVE?!?

So, where does one get an idea of what Spirit even is? (Whole Foods, of course) No- by asking over and over and over. For me, it’s the difference between life in gray and life in neon.

Of Spirit, I’ll leave you with this, from a teacher whose clarity I admire:

‘More and more I am less and less in evidence to myself. More and more I’m just whatever it is I am doing at the moment. It’s just happening, I’m just action. I’m not acting self-consciously. But it’s different from the unconscious action I’ve performed most of my life. All I want is to become like a finger on the hand of his consciousness.”

Ram Dass, Be Love Now, pg 191