Rite of Passage… Thoughts of Gratitude…
One of the affirmations I often receive following a blog post is my willingness to be authentic. Well OK, hold on to your clear liquids, because this entry is the most transparent yet. I am just now going back to re-read it ten days after it poured out of me…pun intended… onto the pages of my journal. So, take it or leave it…written in honor of this season of gratitude…on the couch…following what we middle aged westerners could very well consider…
A Rite of Passage
I was awakened out of a blissful sleep by the sound of a distant fog horn…or so it seemed…all too soon I discovered it was not a fog horn but a sound emanating from my own body. Hold that thought.
In many ancient cultures rites of passage were a big deal. What does it take to cross over into womanhood? Manhood? These meaningful rituals usually involved a celebration of sorts by one’s tribe, family and friends…adornment in bejeweled clothing…pronunciation of blessing…the recognition of the achievement of a higher state of evolution. Today’s infallible source… Wikipedia, designates three conditions that define a rite of passage. First, the individual undergoes some form of testing by isolation…such as heading out into the wilderness solo. Second, there is some test of endurance such as going without food or shelter …the last is a marking of success, such as a scarification or piercing of the skin…a display of bravery…the insignia of those in the inner circle…
Of late, there are those who lament the dearth of ritual in our culture. So I want to share with you what we in the west might consider a rite of passage into the second half of life, assuming we survive the pre-requisites, meaning the test of ENDURANCE or 36 hours or more dining only on clear liquids such as jello, broth, Gatorade, apple juice and finally a gallon or so of lime flavored brine which is like giving sea water for sustenance to one hanging on a plank in the ocean for dear life. This is followed by hours of ISOLATION in the middle of the night…treading a narrow path between bed and bathroom…alone…you MUST be ALONE for not even your most saintly relatives would want to be present. And then..there is the PIERCING of the needle…the IV needle. See? It DOES qualify as a rite of passage! For those of you who have already entered the inner sanctum, this rite of passage evokes flashbacks months and years later as someone innocently asks,
“Have you had your COLONOSCOPY??”
then answers their own question with the “wink, wink” response…”It’s not the procedure itself that’s bad..it’s the PREP that stinks!” Followed by the chuckle of wisdom you share… gained from experience….
SO, this morning…as I return home to my sofa after walking this mysterious path of the elders and in honor of the Thanksgiving season, I would like to share what I am grateful after spending 36 hours in a hypoglycemic stupor. Maybe it’s like the teachings of Don Juan, the wisdom gleaned from wandering in the desert but without the peyote buttons…
1) Despite my love of all things diverse, I am grateful my last meal was neither Indian nor Mexican.
2) I am grateful for Propofol. Before you judge me harshly for touting what we have very sadly come to know as the “Michael Jackson drug”, let me say that I am in no way condoning the recreational use of this marvelous anesthetic, which is of course totally and rightfully illegal. But as one who very seldom imbibes in alcohol, doesn’t smoke and is trying to cut back on sugar, I ask that you please don’t begrudge me a yummy dose of a medically prescribed and closely monitored drug every 5 years or so. WOW.
3) I am grateful for food. When I wasn’t whining to myself about not being able to eat for a day and a half, I stood back and observed what it could like to be hungry with no seeming end to it in the near future. Then I observed what it was like to be just a little hungry and attempt to be productive…a bleary mind and short attention span, less energy…a gnawing feeling in my stomach that wanted constant attention..”Hey! Hey! Listen! Over here! Hey, HEY, HEEEYYY!!!” What was it like to be that little boy on my class in 4th grade who couldn’t stay awake? Was he hungry? What must it be like to live in La Chureca, the garbage dump in Nicaragua where we went on a mission trip? All those kids rummaging through the trash for food? Trying to go to school, work in the dump and face being prostituted? What is it like to be a hungry mother with five hungry children? What about children of crack addicts left alone to fend for themselves?? Yes. I am so grateful for the vast array of choices I have… food from all over the world at any given moment of the day, a refrigerator filled so full I complain I can’t find the peanut butter or the sour cream I bought the last time the recipe called for sour cream and now I need it again…how long ago WAS that??? Oops…EXPIRED!! Oh geez…leftovers???
Yes, I am grateful for food and health and that I have escaped without addiction to propofol, peyote or Carlos Casteneda.
And yes, I am grateful that this rite of passage has PASSED for another 5 years.
Whew…grateful that the fog is lifting…