Tag Archives: Eckhart Tolle

I’ve Got All My Love — to Live!

I love break-ups!

Nyet, seriously, my darlings, I am not being flippant here.

Well, okay, maybe just a lil’.  Because no matter the number of departures I’ve survived, every time it seems to hurt like a mother fucker!  You’d think I’d learn to deal, yet every time one of the participants goes, “I’m out!,” the words hit my heart like a mean defibrillator, and I feel like doubling over.

But then, as I’ve said before:  I’m Russian, eh?  We prefer to think of life as an endless series of shocks straight to the heart anyway.

As a matter of fact, I am quite sure I got myself a free one, at birth, when motha brought to register my newborn body at some local bureaucrat’s office back on some god-foresaken coast of my Motha Land.

“Oh, you’re two hours old?” the greedy and lazy government official said, accepting the bribe of vodka from my motha in exchange for my birth certificate (Stoli — is an official currency of my homeland, dontcha know?  It gets shit done o’er there.)  “Well, how about a freebie then?” — and the fucker attached the electrodes to my tiny heart.  Happy fuckin‘ birthday, bitch!

The only way we know how to deal with pain, as a nation — a nation full of tortured, exhausted hearts addicted to shock therapy — is to laugh.  Or to chuckle at least.  For me, this recent bye-bye by a beloved has caused me a few laughing sessions (mostly at my own expense though).  As for my witnesses and life-long keepers of my secrets, they tend to find me absolutely hilarious during times of loss.  And truth be told, in their tear-jerking, breath-taking laughter, I find myself again — while the heart resumes beating at its healthier pace.  So, this week, I’ve been very busy, you see:  taking my stand-up routine around town and groveling for the healing powers of laughter by my beloveds.

But that’s not really the reason for my recent love of break-ups.

I’ve noticed that if I behold long enough after the initial heart-shocker, there always comes a moment of clarity; and that’s exactly the one I am starting to adore.  Now, the messier the relationship and the more chaotic of a break-up, chances are this clarity will take years to sweep over (if ever).  So, it must be some odd joke I’m currently living through, but just like the relationship itself, this break-up has been… well, kinda great.   Because that’s just the thing:  If during a love, the participants agree to behave according to their personal graces (as my recently beloved and I have), at the end of it, there is no room for guilt or self-defense to suffer through; making the process of healing much quicker.  All along, my lover and I remained kind and generous, so besides an occasional self-delusion on both of our parts, there has been no injustice committed upon each other.  So, in comes forgiveness. 

(Want a little personal secret?  “Forgiveness” was the first one-word message from my beloved that I’ve archived, until recently.  Are you smirking?  That’s bloody irony for ya!  Yourr velkom.)

But here is V’s newest discovery.  Had I been on Oprah, she would’ve called it an Aha Moment.  (What?!  Shut up!  I don’t watch Oprah!)  So forgive me, my darlings, if I go a little New-Agey / SoCal-Hippie on your pretty booties.  I promise soon enough I’ll be back to ranty-cuntry — and we’ll share a laugh again.  But this time around, my Aha Moment is so fragile, I hurry to commemorate it; because tomorrow I might wake up in so much pain, I’ll have reach for the defibrillator myself.  So, let me cradle my tired lil’ heart for a while — a heart that, thank Shiva, has so obviously refused to give up on loving, even after its recent shocker.  Let me cradle my heart and whisper it to a steadier rhythm with the help of a humbling insight:

It’s part of it, my darlings!  It is ALL part of it. 

The loss, the pain, the tragedy; the mourning and disappointment; the bitterness and the letting go — they are equal components of love, just as happiness and lightness.  I am not sure where and how we’ve learned to misinterpret love as only its collective moments of elation.  They are, of course, a part of it.  Or rather they are part of falling in love.  But the actual state of being in love — or BEING LOVE — encompasses every possible emotion, except for the destructive ones.  Why not the destructive?  Because (oh, boy:  I’m about to let it rip!):  Love — is life.  And if one is gripped by emotions that are meant to damage and to destroy oneself or another person, then the story becomes about the pursuit of death.  A thousand little deaths that get one closer to the state of non-living; non-being.  Non-loving.

(Do you hate me yet?  It’s okay, babies, I promise I’ll get nice and angry tomorrow and overcompensate with a cunty lil’ rant.)

“We are meant to live a life of love.  When we’re not in love, something is the matter.” 

These are the first words from a book gifted to me by my dear departed boo (my baby-boy, my kitten; and my big, strong man); a book titled Zen and the Art of Falling in Love.  It has been my go-to during this most gracefully-executed romantic relationship of my life, and although I still have kilometers upon kilometers to go in search of my personal Zen, I feel that with this fleeting realization — that life is not just synonymous to love, but IS love — I am ever so closer.  So, even as I find myself newly single — lashing out on occasion, to earn the laughter of my permanently beloved — I have not fallen out of love.  I carry on loving life itself — loving you — and what’s most difficult, yet rewarding, loving myself.

Oh-kay!  That’s enough!

As my love used to say in our phone chats:

“Hey, Eckhart!  Give the phone back to V.”

“To the Left, to the Left!”

The other midnight, while on Hollyweird’s no longer secret throughway of Fountain Ave,  I found my lil’ sporty car revving up its engine while impatiently crawling behind a clunker.  For those of you who haven’t had the privilege of sitting in traffic on this one-lane residential street running in between the freak-show of Sunset Boulevard and the parking lot of Santa Monica Boulevard, it is still one of the more reliable routes to take if you don’t ever wanna be the douche who walks-in late for a meeting — or an audition, or a dinner reservation — and says:

“Gosh!  The traffic!”

Oh really?  Traffic in LA-LA, eh?  Shocker.  Must the gay people’s parade out there, or something, huh?

Normally, when wasting my life in traffic, I’d resort to one of two choice:  either I swear colorfully enough to make the other drivers’ outer ears wilt, or I think of Eckhart Tolle and pretend to meditate.  But at midnight?

“WHY in the bloody, fuckin’ Dickens am I going at 3-fuckin’-miles an hour — with NO other cars in sight?!” I thought, and began to spew out hefty nicknames I’d call the driver of the clunker if ever that moron and I had a face-to-face encounter.

I was sitting behind him at a red light, waiting to make the left turn that would finally liberate me from his retarded choice of speed, when the passenger door flung open and a gorgeous creature leapt out onto the street.  She was petite, in some shiny, skin-tight Cat Woman outfit, with a bouncy bob of glossy black hair.  In twelve-inch heels, she jetted for the sidewalk, leapt up onto the curb and started walking.  By the temper of her strut, and the swing of her elbows, and the hesitant stall of the clunker once the light switched to green (the poor fucker forgot where he was going!), I quickly realized that I was witnessing a relationship dispute.

Now, a long, long time ago — this cat’s several lifetimes ago, to be precise — my love affairs used to have that sort of a dramatic feel to them as well.  Now, don’t get me wrong, my comrades:  Especially in the beginning, my lovers were always beautiful and love-worthy — of various nations and tongues, professions and talents, physical attributes and endowments, age groups and income; with unpredictable hairlines and bodily hair.  Oh, they were lovely!  Really!  But that’s, of course, until an affair would start going to shit (and let’s not kid ourselves:  we all know when a relationship does a one-eighty toward the unavoidable break-up); at which point, no matter how much I’ve tried to brace myself for grace and some degree of gratitude during the transition, it would always get dirty.

Not really a flaky or fearful partner (and because as an ex-Soviet, I accept suffering as part of the deal), I would still try to stick around “to fix it”.  But once there are cancer cells in the body of a relationship, most likely it is time to wrap-up all the loose ends and with a heavy realization of its unavoidable demise, just ask:

“Doctor?  How long do I have left?”

The mess that followed my departures (and I would always be the one to leave:  https://fromrussianwithlove.wordpress.com/about/) would take years to clean-up; often accompanied by astronomical phone bills due to all the sorting-out and the fishing-for-forgiveness conversations.  Or should I call them “fights”?  Hmm…  Yep:  They were fights!  Often unclean and unfair, loaded with lists of mutual grievances and tears; and a certain degree of my hyperventilation, because once again, I wasn’t sure where I had gone wrong…

Now, wait up!  Wait up a second here, V!

Actually, with enough honest examinations of my inner and outer selves, I have to confess:  I always knew when shit wasn’t right. Yep, I’ve seen the red flags and the signs of messy things to follows. Yet still, I would impatiently rev-up my inner engine and drive right over them — and into the arms of a man wrongly suited for me from day one.  And once in them — in those moderately or plentifully haired arms — I would continue to speed toward the Committed Relationship chapter of the affair.  More red flags would pop-up; yet I’d be in the zone, jacking-up my speedometer, Danika Patrick style.  And I would continue to stubbornly ignore my intuition — until the routine of the relationship would finally set in; at which point, I’d have NO choice but to slow down, eventually pull over, and collect all the self-violation tickets.

Okay, you get the metaphor, my comrades.

So, when the Cat Woman leapt out of that obviously ill-suited for her magnificence vehicle the other night, I had to remember my own stunts of jumping out of derailed relationships and my lovers’ moving chariots.  So, what did I do?  I U-turned, my lovelies!  (Illegally, of course!)  Because I too had suffered enough and could empathize with the Cat Woman’s Walk of Freedom.  And although I couldn’t help her with cleaning-up her poor choices and patterns, it was my civic — womanly — duty to ensure her safety that night.

Again, I sped, with my very ovaries pushing on the pedal.  But by the time I caught-up to our gorgeous kitten’s trajectory, she had already gotten back into the clunker.

“Well,” I thought.  “She hadn’t had enough yet!”

So, I said a prayer for our Cat Woman’s safety, hoping that she would always land on her feet; wished for clarity in her next life — and sped off home.