Pushing Upward (4 page)

I untwisted the black-coiled telephone cord from around my finger and dialed Rachel's number again. Her line was still busy.
God, that girl can talk!

I loved being around Rachel, for several reasons. The first reason was because we both came from dysfunctional families. The second was because I always felt thin standing next to her. She was tall, about five-foot-eight, a hundred and fifty pounds. I was five-foot-six, a hundred and forty pounds. Give or take a pound—depending. Rachel's bones were bigger, giving people the impression she was heavier than she was. She had an enviable size-C rack compared to my measly Bs, which my push-up bra helped me to achieve. My wavy hair was consistently dark brown; Rachel's hair was straight one day, frizzy the next, and changed colors with her outfits. She hated her freckles. She'd wear way too many moonstone rings, six or seven gold chains around her neck, gobs of makeup, and bold batik bell-bottoms that totally embarrassed me—I mean, she was partial to God-awful hand-screened footprints of obscure animals! But Rachel loved them. She said her cousin Cannoli (yes, like the Sicilian dessert) gifted her these outfits from his trips overseas as a photographer, and since she adored
him,
she adored the outfits.

We'd take long walks down Sunset Boulevard window-shopping, people-watching, but inevitably, people would be looking at
her.
She always stood out! If it weren't for Rachel's latest attempt at auburn hair, and her oily complexion, she could have been a real stunner. Regardless of what that girl looked like or what she was wearing, though, just being in her presence would make my day. Her dry, sardonic sense of humor always made me laugh.

Another reason I liked Rachel was because she didn't take her acting as seriously as I did. For me, acting had become my salvation. It allowed me to be anybody but me. It also gave me an outlet for my creativity, which was bursting at the seams, and an art form I'd begun to respect and had become good at. For Rachel, it was simply a diversion, something to have fun with. This was good for our relationship. It prevented competition.

She was also the only person with whom I could share my deepest spiritual pursuits. This was very important to me.

We knew there had to be more to this mundane existence than getting up, going to work, coming home, eating, and going to sleep day after day. We knew there had to be a bigger purpose, a perspective on life that was deeper and more profound than what we had been taught. We just didn't know where to look, let alone where to find it. We thought about going to church or to a synagogue, but we didn't want “religion.” We wanted something more. Something beyond the doctrine and lectures on guilt and our sins. Beyond the preachers' and rabbis' interpretation of who
they
thought God was. We wanted our own truth, our own understanding. And we wanted it—yesterday!

Then, one day, in God's benevolent way, destiny revealed itself … once again. I discovered an awesome book—and its uncanny ability to unravel the mystery of our lives.

I was strolling down Melrose Avenue one day and smelled an intriguing aroma coming from a small yellow building. The quaint little house had been renovated into a commercial store. The wooden sign nailed to the building read: T
HE
B
ODHI
T
REE
B
OOK AND
T
EA
S
HOP
. I followed the scent and walked into a magical room filled with books and crystals, plants, and hanging chimes.

The Bodhi Tree was funky—a let-your-hair-down kind of place where people could walk in day or night and be assured of soft classical music playing in the background. As you strolled through the store, the fragrance of
nag champa
incense filled your senses, enticing you to stay while you searched for the book of your dreams. Hot tea and honey were kept warm in copper teakettles for customers to sip on as they meandered through the airy aisles. And the salespeople were never pushy. They'd let you sit for hours, let you get lost in the pages you were reading for as long as you wanted. I felt so comfortable in this bliss-filled haven; I could have made myself cozy in a corner and lived there forever.

Ambling among the aisles that first day, I felt this magnetic attraction to the Eastern Religion/Philosophy section. I gazed at the crowded shelves. Studying the titles, wondering which book would call out to me, I noticed a yellow-bound cover with a black square on its spine. The longer I stared at the book, the more it began to illuminate, almost sparkle. My eyes widened as I examined the words:
The I Ching, or Book of Changes,
written in gold italics. Compelled to take the book off the shelf, I began to leaf through its pages. The words seemed strangely familiar, expansive. I found a seat on a pillowed wooden bench. And as I sat there scanning the thin sheets with their tiny print, the manager appeared at my side.

“Not everyone can grasp these teachings. They're very subtle.”

I looked up at her, surprised that anyone had noticed me, let alone noticed me reading this book. Her face was both kind and austere. Her blonde hair, in a high ponytail, swayed to and fro as she spoke. Then she stooped down to my eye level, and with her hands on her knees said, “The
I Ching
is an ancient Chinese text whose origins can be traced back thousands of years. It was used as a decision-making tool by famous emperors and sages. Today people use it all over the world.”

“Really?” I was totally impressed with her knowledge, and the fact that she was sharing it with
me.

“The
I Ching,
” she went on, “is based on the philosophies of Taoism and Confucianism. It offers us a way to see into difficult situations, especially those emotionally charged ones where at times our rational knowledge fails us. It helps us to get in touch with both our inner and outer worlds, allowing us to make more accurate decisions. The
I Ching
can do this because it's an oracle.”

“What's an oracle?” I asked, embarrassed that I wasn't as well versed in the subject.

“An oracle translates a problem or question you're having into an image, like your dreams do. It helps you change the way you think about your situation and connects you with the inner forces that are shaping it.”

I stood up, because my behind hurt—and I wanted to continue this discussion on my feet. She rose, too. Face-to-face, she continued: “The magic happens when you ask the
I Ching
a question and it reveals the answer. But what's really fascinating is when it answers a question you didn't even know was in your heart.”

Intrigued by the woman's intensity, I opened the book to the foreword, written by Carl Jung, the renowned psychoanalyst. I didn't want to be rude, but I couldn't help myself. I started to read silently:

The
I Ching
insists upon self-knowledge throughout. The method by which this is to be achieved is open to every kind of misuse, and is therefore not for the frivolous-minded and immature; nor is it for intellectuals and rationalists. It is appropriate only for thoughtful and reflective people who like to think about what they do and what happens to them—a predilection not to be confused with the morbid brooding of the hypochondriac …

The
I Ching
does not offer itself with proofs and results; it does not vaunt itself, nor is it easy to approach. Like a part of nature, it waits until it is discovered. It offers neither facts nor power, but for lovers of self-knowledge, of wisdom—if there be such—it seems to be the right book.

The manager had left. I closed the oracle and walked immediately to the counter to buy the book. Money was tight, but there was no way I was walking out of there without it.

The manager came back over to me as I waited in line. “You're going to love this book, trust me. I don't make a decision without it.” She handed me a flyer. “Here's some information on how to ask your question. It's up to you to interpret the
I Ching
's answer. It just takes practice. If you go to the back of the book, it explains how to throw the coins.”

I shook her hand and thanked her profusely.

“One last thing,” she added. “Feel free to ask a question and open the book randomly to any page. It's a different experience than throwing the coins. Oh, and don't be turned off by the male-centric presentation. It was written millennia ago.”

Minutes after opening my apartment door, I grabbed an apple from the fridge, the only thing left that was fresh, plopped onto my bed, and did my very best to read the
I Ching
from beginning to end. This, of course, was an insane proposition since it contained over seven hundred pages. But I continued reading until three in the morning and still couldn't put the thick yellow book down. The commentaries on the sixty-four archetypal images, referred to as
hexagrams,
were beyond fascinating. I wanted to learn about all sixty-four—push myself to read the entire text—but I had to stop, give my eyes a break, absorb what I'd read so far. Finally, I closed the book, closed my eyes, and lay there in awe of the honesty and depth of these pages.

I'd never read anything that explained so clearly how we, as human beings, could live consciously in the world, how we could create a life of integrity and balance. I'd always jumped into things without thought of consequences, like everyone else I knew. It wasn't until
after
the experience that I'd “get it” and think:
Why did I ever do that?
But something in this book, something in the very act of
reading
this book, showed me that if I didn't slow down and think about every single action I took, before I took it, my life would never improve. Once I started throwing the coins, asking the right questions, and getting answers beyond my limited understanding, I began to see the sheer brilliance of this book.

I shared my discovery with Rachel. She thought it was the best thing since batik. It wasn't long before we became
I Ching
addicts, spending hours on the phone talking about our latest question and the meaning of the “throw,” the answer. The
I Ching
became a very useful advisor, helping us resolve all kinds of problems and questions in our lives. It also confirmed what we, at times, did not want to admit was true. We did not take the
I Ching
lightly, nor did we use it without due respect. Opening its pages became a sacred, religious event …

Finally, she's off the phone.

“Hello?”

“I've been trying to reach you for an hour. I'm going ballistic. Can you spare a few minutes before I jump into the San Andreas Fault?”

“I'm polishing up the brass on Cleopatra's breastplates.”

She's in rare form.

“Tomorrow I get to work with the serpent. There's a birthday party for one of the board members of American Express. He apparently loves looking at women who fondle dangerous animals.”

“Is the snake going to be drugged?” I asked.

“Of course it's going to be drugged.
I'm
the one who's gonna bite if he gets out of line. So? Tell me what happened with the interviews?”

“Well, I went on an African safari, I was a mouse in a magazine maze, and I met a horny toad with disgustingly long nostril hairs who came way too close to raping me.”

“Karma,” Rachel stated matter-of-factly.

“Oh, here we go!”

“Negative past-life actions. You obviously did something in a former life that's bringing these situations to you now.”

“Great! I have to suffer
now
because of something I did in another life?”

“Are you kidding? By the sound of it, you could have been Hitler or Attila the Hun or the bride of Dracula. If you don't burn up these karmas
now,
” Rachel went on, chomping on a carrot, “you'll have to come back a few more times till you do.”

“Well,
that
really motivates me to go on living! Anyway—I'm supposed to meet this woman tomorrow. She sounds like she's sixty. Maybe the ad wasn't such a good idea. Only … I just received my last eviction notice, and Martha called yesterday saying she couldn't afford me anymore, and I have a grand total of seventy dollars to my name. I'm drinking way too much caffeine, and I've gained fifteen pounds.”