Enrique’s theory

I have a very cool writer friend, Enrique, who has the most brilliant theory of life. I feel so honored that he’s given me permission to post it.

Thank you, E!

As best as I can encapsulate the idea with my puny, nonscientifically-or-theologically trained mind, it works something like this: All humans – and possibly/probably all living things – are physically and intellectually/mentally/consciously connected by an invisible “life force” (probably electromagnetic in nature) that gives us a common touchpoints of psychological experience, and which allows us to “feel” the feelings of others and sense changes in the life force of others in ways that in past times have been mistakenly been described – in our pathetic human efforts to describe the indescribable – as “religion,” as “ESP,” as “intuition” and other manifestations of metaphysical weirdness.
 
I came up with this theory as a college sophomore, sitting in my bedroom on a Saturday afternoon listening to The Who on my stereo. As my mind wandered here to there, I suddenly felt a sharp, gripping pain in my chest. It lingered for about a half hour, and was intense enough to cause some worry for my immediate survival, but not enough to distract me from The Who. About a half hour later, the phone rang – it was the floor nurse at a major hospital in Phoenix, Ariz., where my father lived, telling me that he had just had a major heart attack and was in dire condition. We were told to fly ASAP to Phoenix, and my pains were soon forgotten.
 
Later, the experience caused me to wonder – was it mere coincidence that I felt chest pains stronger than I have ever experienced at the exact moment my dad was having a myocardial infarction? What could explain it? At the time, I was studying some science in school and on my own, and was familiar with a couple of scientific laws that could help explain such a phenomenon, and also show how physics might underlie a lot of the spiritual and metaphysical concepts we have developed over centuries as humans.
 
The first scientific law that seemed to be relatable to this “sympathetic” pain in my chest was the law of gravity. Here we have a force (not really a force, but stick with me) that literally is smeared everywhere in the universe, which touches everything in the universe, and which (more importantly) allows everything in the universe to instantly push or pull on everything else in the universe. It’s a scientific fact: Everything with mass has a gravitational pull that is felt by everything else with mass. When the moon passes over the ocean, its gravitational pull lifts the water toward it by a few inches – we call these tides. When you hop a bit into the air, your gravitational pull is literally pulling the ENTIRE PLANET EARTH toward you just a little teeny bit. Your gravity is felt by everything, everywhere – even the farthest star in the universe “knows you’re there.”
 
It’s like we are walking in a matrix – a force field – a sticky plasma — of gravity that embraces everything, senses everything, allows everything to impact everything. What if similar forces are in effect for life and living creatures, and we just haven’t “discovered” them yet?
 
It just seemed to make the most sense from a scientific basis, and explain so many things that we have found to be inexplicable. Since nature has provided a force that can be pervasive enough to literally connect everything in the universe to everything else, it didn’t seem outlandish to me that some other related force could serve to connect living things. When my dad had his heart attack, that pain caused “ripples” in his own life energy, and because life energy is connected (in my theory), I felt those ripples as they spread through the “life force field” like a wave, a wave that was most directly connected to me because my life force was a product of his life force.
 
The second scientific concept that seems plausibly wrapped into this whole “life force” phenomenon is energy. Weird thing about energy is that it cannot be created, or destroyed. The energy you feel in the morning, the energy you “run out of” during the day, had to first come from somewhere else, and it will go somewhere else after you throw your exhausted body into bed. Energy inhabits different forms, rides a sequential series of hosts, going from the sun to the sea to a plant to our bellies to our laughter to our dreams and then back out into the world, to be ceaselessly reused, remaining forever alive. So it seemed clear to me that the since life is essentially harnessed energy, the energy that is/was our “life” will never go away, and will simply move on to other forms. We take our last breath, and the energy of our soul simply re-enters the “life force field,” joining all the passed-away others who have added their energy to this overall force field (“Hi, Dad!”), and becoming a jumble of unseen once-living energy, full of former lives – something that that religion has come to call “Heaven.” When a new life is created, some of the energy from this field – possibly including some of the energy that used to be you – pops out of the unseen force field and again inhabits some body – a physical occurrence that humans have come to call “reincarnation.”
 
And, when many millions of humans sense (as I did) this seemingly spiritual connectedness, this churning matrix of birth and death and everlasting life, they have over the centuries come up with words like “God” and constructs like religion to explain it all. Look at how many stories in religion echo one another – not because of a shared God, or even God-driven teachings, but because of a shared sense of how life energy connects us all. We are God, all of us.
 
The life force/sustained energy theory can (if you squint a little) also be useful in explaining such mysteries as séances (since energy cannot be destroyed, my Dad is “still out there” somewhere), and could also be what’s at work when we “get a feeling that something’s wrong” with a loved one, or “believe this house is haunted,” or “feel like Mom is still with me” though she died last year, the nature of “the soul,” etc. etc. I suspect the force is especially strong between related people, but my thinking is hazy on why this would be – possible because your energy flowed out of the same original sources as their energy (same ancestors), their “wavelengths” are similar or something.
 
God, I’m crazy.
No way, dude.
IMG_3232

 

My sunshine

To my Little A,

You are the light of my life! I saw a sign the other day that reminded me so much of you. It said, “There are very few who possess something of that spirit that will brighten whatever they touch.”

That’s you! Warm, magnetic, charming, magical. You make every moment better. Funner. Cooler. More interesting. Your energy is infectious.

I can’t believe how lucky I am to be your mom. Thank you, universe, for my Little A.

Thanks, Mr. D

I probably don’t say it enough, but you are the best thing that ever happened to me.

You’re an incredible father, husband, lover, friend, life coach, writer, IT business analyst, therapist (my own personal!), comedian, reciter of esoteric quotes (“Who’s the Boss is not a food!”), and so much more.

You make me and our babies the luckiest girls in the world. Thank you for being you.

bitmoji-20160317212201

To my artist

Big A, my love, you’re such a beautiful artist. Tonight I asked about your favorite kind of art form—painting, coloring, etc., and you said writing.

“Yeah,” you shrugged. “I do some of that.”

We have so many great artists in our family. Seema, Sunil, Yamboo. Ada knows languages; Nani is a brilliant chef. I write. Pretty well, I’m told. Daddy will never agree, but he actually blows me out of the water. The thing about writing is even when you feel you’re good, you always know you could be better. Or maybe that’s just the way you feel about any job you love. And I love being a writer! (I hope you and Little A will both keep a handwritten journal. It’s such a beautiful way to preserve your memories.)

But anyway… you were explaining accents to me tonight. What does that mean, I asked. You hummed in the same steady note and then squeaked. That, you said, was the accent. It was brilliant and funny in the awesome way you are. Then you explained what it means in art—something about big lines and small ones? (You showed me as you brushed strokes on the page, and I must admit, I didn’t really get it.) But you did. And you draw beautifully. I don’t think I tell you that enough. I love your rendition of George Washington and Honest Abe. I love that you’re fascinated by history and that you think critically about the subject.

Tonight, in bed, you said you loved India. I assumed that’s because it’s the only foreign country you’ve visited, but no, you told me how everyone used to want to go to India because it was the land of gold and jewels. And how everyone there has beautiful dark skin. But that you don’t like the pollution and litter.

I said the water is also very dirty, so dirty that people who drink it can get terribly sick. (I thought of Flint, Michigan.) I said things aren’t very good for girls in India either. (We talked about how Nani wanted to come to America, how she wanted a better life for me, a place where women could be successful.)

“What’s success?” you asked, and then you answered your own question before I could. “Happiness?”

“Yes, my love. That exactly it.”

“Then you’re very successful, mommy.”

Indeed I am. All thanks to you, your sister, and your daddy.

Why weed

I’ve liked weed since the first time I tried it at Senior Week, when a friend told me about how some guy in our high school had had sex with some girl in our high school. It was scandalous in the dumb way teenage hook-ups are, and she followed up the revelation with the usual “Don’t say anything.” But then she added: “Well, it’s not like we’re ever going back.”

That shit was deep. I was officially high.

Fourteen years later, I think those revelations are still one of my favorite things about marijuana, though the list is long. I love thinking, analyzing, getting high and gazing at the stars, feeling both the weight of my insignificance and the sense of belonging in a vast and seemingly infinite universe.

I love laughing until my stomach hurts and my cheeks turn numb, the pain in my abs harder and more wonderful than any workout could ever produce. I love polishing off the last bite of a delicious meal with unbridled satisfaction. I love waking up hangover-free. But perhaps most of all, I love the clarity and introspection of the herb, being present in a way that allows me to live in the beauty of my life and the magic of my children’s youth.

I know that makes me sound like a total stoner, which I sort of am, but maybe not in the stereotypical way. I don’t smoke nightly and there’s a part of me–a big part, actually–that worries about this blog. And not for the practical reasons, like, “Will I lose my job?”; but rather, the anxiety over the messages I want to send: About values and vices and my overarching thoughts on drugs, life, parenting, work, marriage and love.

Am I getting it right? Am I fucking up completely? I want to preface every post with: “This is what I believed at 32!” Who knows how that will change. Isn’t that the beauty of it all? That we get to keep going and hopefully reach a place where we get it right?

But I guess those are all thoughts for another post, on another day. For now, I just want my girls (and Mr. D) to know that my love for them is as vast and infinite as the universe itself. And maybe that’s what I love about marijuana. In a life that moves astonishingly fast, I get to slow down time when I’m with you.

IMG_2794

Bless you, NameBright

I paid $2,000 for the highmom.com domain name. I’m not sure how stupid that was; I tend to vacillate between “What that fuck were you thinking” and “That’s not really that much.”

Anyway, I purchased the site from NameBright.com, and dropping that kind of cash on a site I’d never heard of made me uneasy. I kept wishing I had bought it from GoDaddy, finding comfort in its creepy name and sleazy commercials. (Hashtag brand recognition.)

But almost immediately after I purchase highmom, I realize I have no clue what I’m doing. (If this post were a Family Guy clip, we’d segue to the scene from “Don’t make me over,” which sadly doesn’t exist on YouTube. But it’s the one where Peter, Joe, Cleveland and Quagmire are on stage, in costume, before a crowd of prisoners, ready to play their first song just as Peter realizes they don’t know any.)

Anyway, Peter is me: lost, intimidated, overwhelmed. I don’t know what a name server is. I don’t know what my next steps are. This whole process scares me, and so I do the only thing I know how. Nothing.

I’d still be making payments on a nonexistent site were it not for Mr. D. He suggests I call the company, have them walk me through the steps. And how they do. The lucky customer service rep spends close to an hour answering all of my stupid questions. And they are stupid. (But whatever. I’ve learned your ability to grasp a concept is inversely proportional to the simplicity of the questions you ask about it.) Anyway, he explains things in such digestible detail that I finally understand I need to find a web hosting site.

So I call my friend who’s launching a new mobile company, has built websites, and all-around knows his shit. When he recommends DreamHost, I listen. And I eventually launch this blog.

DreamHost and NameBright are probably totally different services (or maybe they’re identical. Who knows. I certainly don’t.). Anyway, the only discernible difference I’ve noticed is in the customer service.

DreamHost offers 24/7 live chat, which is amazing until you start asking questions. Talking to them makes me feel like I’m getting my eyebrows waxed at a Korean nail salon. (“Ohhh, you very hairy. Very hairy. Want your lip done, too?”). Actual quotes from DreamHost’s customer service team include, “I don’t know what you’re talking about” and “I don’t know how to help you beyond the answers I’ve given.” I always exit the pop-up box feeling like the web development dummy that I am.

But then I call NameBright, whose representatives patiently navigate me through uncharted, digital waters. Maybe they’re just better at understanding their consumer. “She’s high? And a mom? She’s clearly sleepy and confused. Let’s take it easy on this one.”

Whatever the reason, I thank you, NameBright. I was wrong for ever doubting you.

IMG_2652

Nothing says I love you like a vomit hug

Love can be candy and roses, but it’s also picking regurgitated carrots from your daughter’s curls. It’s watching your husband scrape vomit from your car’s cup holders on a 12-degree day. It’s ugly and gross, in sickness or in health, for better or worse.

That’s how we spent our Valentine’s Day 2016. Not ideal, but real. And I think it was the most accurate metaphor for love. I could probably write more, but I’m still queasy, and someone else has already articulated this far more eloquently:

Grit Is Often The Best Description Of Love. It was easy to love [my wife] when we were newlyweds. Easy for her to love me during seasons of comfort. But it’s much more difficult to fight for love when you lose a baby. Or have a huge financial setback. Or confess a really ugly secret about yourself. Fairy tales are great for movies, but real life is more often confusing, chaotic and messy. Dig in when it gets hard.

Kung Fu Panda is trash

I got high and watched Kung Fu Panda for the first time last night. What a disappointment (the movie, not the weed). Apparently the moral of the story is “there is no secret ingredient” to success. It just boils down to fate.

Really, Dreamworks? That is SO not the ninja message.

If you haven’t seen the movie, here’s my synopsis:

An entitled panda named Po is “destined” to be the dragon master and defeat an evil snow leopard prophesied to be dark and dangerous. The leopard is depicted as being ruthlessly ambitious in search of a mysterious scroll, which ultimately ends up being worthless because “there’s no secret ingredient” to success. Po’s destiny leads him to bad-ass animals who have devoted their lives to the martial arts. But since they’re not The Chosen One, they’re worthless. Even as a team, they can’t stop the evil leopard. Meanwhile, Po, an indolent bastard whose only redeeming quality is dueling for a dumpling, never learns the value of grit and moral fortitude but somehow ends up saving the day.

Why would we send that message to kids? It negates everything I hope to teach my daughters, which is: If you want to be a ninja at anything, you have to work really fucking hard. That’s the message of all two of my childhood kung fu movies, The Karate Kid and Sidekicks (RIP, Jonathan Brandis).

Then I venture down my stoned rabbit hole of things I want to teach them:

  • Hard work is the secret ingredient to anything worth having in this life, from a good job to a good marriage to everything in between and beyond.
  • You’re not entitled to anything. But you sweet, privileged young ladies are destined for greatness. And that’s partly because you’ve been blessed with advantages in this life that not everyone has.
  • That may make you may feel like you can get complacent. You can’t. You must use your gifts to make a meaningful mark on whatever you choose to do in this world.
  • I hope you’ll be as driven by your own talents as you are by the values your father and I try to instill. Values of kindness, resilience, humor, empathy–the things we hope to teach by example, but sometimes fail in exhibiting ourselves.
  • Because none of us are Chosen. We’re just trying our best–and hopefully, trying a little more, and getting a little better, every day.
  • Kaizen. Continuous improvement. Work hard, get better.

That’s what this dumb movie should have been about. With way more kung fu.

Diary of a stoner mom

There are nights when I hold her close, her heartbeat against mine, the intimacy of our bond so deep, the tenderness so palpable that all I can think of is this. This moment. This soul. This love. This, I whisper to myself, is the meaning of life. Also—and this part I don’t whisper, I just know—this mommy is really high.

I’m not sure when I became a pothead. In fact, I’m not quite sure what the definition is. For me, it’s a few hits of the bowl, a few nights a week. It’s my release from daily drudgery, my descent to Zen. It’s my time. Except it isn’t.

There’s something about marijuana that makes me want to lie in the grass and find dragons in the clouds. Or linger in the kitchen, admiring my husband refill the dog bowl. Or curl in bed, reading every story of my daughter’s princess adventure book, nuzzling my nose in her hair until she falls asleep.   Continue reading