Stop Being Mean to Yourself: A Story About Finding the True Meaning of Self-Love (14 page)

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"If God wills it," he said.

"Then tell them I will be back
Insha
'
a Allah
."

He smiled.

I walked out the front door of the house. I intended to return soon, but this would be the last time, at least on this Page 123

trip, that I would see these lovely women of Giza.

Essam and I walked to a restaurant in the downtown area of the village. He directed me to a small outdoor table at the restaurant, then ordered tea for us. I ran across the street to an openair market to get some tangerines.

"Take off your shoes," Essam said when I returned to the table.

"What?" I asked, wondering what kind of cultural tradition this was.

"Take off your shoes," he said again.

I noticed how dusty my walking boots were as I unlaced and removed them. Essam knelt down, took my boots in his hand, stood up, smiled, then pointed to a shop across the street.

"I'm getting your shoes shined," he said. "They're covered with the desert."

Shortly, Essam returned to the table with my shoes. We sat drinking tea and talking about the tangerines, the village, and my plans for the rest of the week. I was considering moving from the large hotel in Cairo to a smaller hotel on the edge of Giza. I hadn't yet begun writing. This concerned me, but there were so many things to see and do, so many people to meet. These adventures felt so important.

"I have some more family members I would like you to meet," Essam said.

"Who?" I asked.

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"There are about five thousand of them," he said.

I laughed. Then Essam's mood shifted visibly.

"I had to divorce my wife, Melody," he said after a long pause.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because she wouldn't stay in the box," he said.

His voice was tinted with sadness, his face and eyes clouded with confusion. In that moment, in that look in his face, I saw so many things.

Men need women as much as or more than women need men, I thought, whether that need expresses itself as a need for friendship or a romantic relationship. I looked around at the streets devoid of the presence of women, as many of the streets in the Arab world had been except in the
souk
.
Societies need the balance brought by female energy, I thought. That's what's missing here. To be complete and live in a way that brings us into harmony with ourselves and the world, we
each
need the daily presence and involvement of the feminine side of ourselves—our intuition, nurturing, creativity.

Essam was strong, yet he was a kind, gentle man. In all my time here, I had seen him wield power over no one. He seemed to accept and enjoy my independence and freedom, even though I'm a woman. I wondered why allowing his wife freedom threatened him so much. Could it be that even though men appeared to have so much more power

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than women, men perceived women as actually being more powerful than men? Did they look at women with the same illusions about power that women sometimes had when they saw men? Was this whole dance a big power play, where people suffered from the illusion they didn't have power and then tried to repress the power in others—steal power—to try to bring things into balance?

The world is changing, I thought. Our world in the United States—even this world here in the Middle East—is changing. One person can no longer have power by denying another his or her freedom or power. The world is bringing itself—and the male and female energies in it—into balance.

Taking power from another no longer works. Power—whether it is emotional, spiritual, mental, physical, psychic, or financial—is a tremendous responsibility. The Golden Rule—do unto others as you would have them do unto you—is not a suggestion. It's a law that decodes how the universe works. How we use our powers, how we behave, how we treat others boomerangs back to us. Even the subtle ways we direct our thoughts, emotions, and intentions toward others will inevitably come back to haunt us, particularly when we intermingle these powerful energies with our will.

Ultimately, how we love our neighbor
is
how we love and treat ourselves.

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Years ago, I practiced the ritual of praying for people I resented. I hadn't understood the rationale for doing this. I did it because people I trusted told me to. They told me that it was better than seeking revenge and that praying for people I resented worked—which it did. I had done this on blind faith. Now, I began to see
why
it worked. When we seek revenge, we are really targeting that spiteful energy at ourselves. When we project mean energy, it can and will be turned back on us. It's inevitable. It has to go somewhere. And when we pray for another—even if we have to force the words until they feel real—we're really praying for blessings to be heaped upon ourselves. We're projecting an energy that is desirable to have redirected and turned back at us.

Make no mistake—there is a vast difference between a reckoning and revenge.

In Aikido
,
I learned that the art
'
s powerful defense techniques were effective only if someone attacked
.
If a person did not attack
,
there was no negative
energy
—
no force
—
to direct back at that person
.

I pestered my sensei for a book I could read
,
something that would help me to mentally configure the ideas I was struggling so hard to learn
.
I wanted to
understand in my head how to work with energy that was directed at me
,
how to intuitively
,
immediately
,
and gracefully send all negative energy back to
its source in the dojo and in my life
.
I wanted the recipe for how to protect myself without becoming vengeful
,
aggressive
,
or overly
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hurtful. I wanted to learn everything I could about power, because it was setting me free. And I wanted a list of rules, an instruction booklet to help me do
that.

"That's not how you learn," my teacher said. "Struggle through the confusion until your body, mind, and spirit learn how it feels when you get it right.

Then you'll really know. And then you'll remember."

"
But there must be something I can read
,"
I protested
.

Finally
,
on my own
,
I found a book that discussed these ideas
,
a book called
The Art of War.
When I told my teacher about the book
,
he said it was a good
one
.
"
But when you finish that
,
there
'
s a better one
,"
he said
.
"
It
'
s called
The Art of Peace."

Back in Giza, as I sat in the outdoor restaurant drinking my tea, talking to Essam, and thinking about power, women, and revenge, I noticed a young boy riding a donkey bareback down the street. This ancient village mesmerized me. It was a journey back in time.

"Look!" I said to Essam, pointing at the animal.

"Do you want to ride it?" Essam asked.

I hesitated. Essam insisted. He called to the boy. Then we walked over to the donkey. The boy dismounted. I swung my leg over the back of the animal, hoisted myself up, then rode that ass bareback down the street.

It had taken me a long time, but I was out of the box. And I had no intention of getting back in
Inshaa Allah
.

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"Let me see your notes," the female interrogator with the chestnutcolored hair demanded, reeling me back into the airport in Tel Aviv.

I recoiled in disbelief. I felt invaded and violated. Didn't I have any rights? What was this woman looking for? What did she think I had found?

"I want to see your notes," she repeated firmly. "Anything at all you have written that pertains to this book."

My hands shook as I fished through my suitcase and dug out my file.

"I don't have a lot," I said, handing her some papers. "But here they are."

"Read them to me, please," she said.

I put on my glasses, then struggled to read my almost illegible writing.

"
Stop Being Mean to Yourself
is about a journey into selflove. It's about having compassion for others. But it's about learning to have compassion for ourselves, too."

I paused. "Oh," I said. "At the bottom of the page I have one more thing scrawled."

She looked at me, waiting.

"It's an awfully big adventure . . ."

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chapter 9

Finding the Key

Before the birth of written language, ancient civilizations documented and preserved important communications and messages by carving pictures and symbols in stone.

These pictures and symbols expressed ideas rather than words, as writing does now.

Although Egypt graduated from etching symbols in stone to writing on papyrus almost five thousand years ago, much Egyptian art still consists of symbolic onedimensional drawings. These pictures are not just intended to Page 130

capture a particular scene as the artist saw, interpreted, and then rendered it. They are symbolic pictures—sacred art meant to communicate a specific message or story directly to a person's heart and mind.

On this day, in Giza, Essam and I went shopping in the village. I needed a few incidentals—some fruit, a music tape, some aspirin. I had also been instructed to buy four white candles to bring into the pyramids with me while I meditated. When I finished shopping, Essam took me to meet another of his relatives, a doctor who is also a perfume merchant. We took tea with the doctor and visited for a while. Almost abruptly, Essam stood up.

''Please come with me now,'' he said. "It is time for you to get your pictures."

I didn't understand what he was talking about, but by now I trusted Essam. He had become more than a friend. He had become a teacher and a guide for this part of my Arabian expedition.

I had no idea, as I followed him to the car, that today would hold a key to a mystery I'd been trying to unravel for years.

I have spent a fair degree of time in my life looking for keys
—
car keys
,
house keys
,
garage keys
.
Keys
.

I have spent more time looking for one key in particular
—
the key to the mystery oflife
.

It was as if there were a big locked metal door
.
On one side

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of it was pure
,
true edification and wisdom
,
supreme knowledge of why we
'
re here and how to be happy and fulfilled while were here
—
enlightenment
.

I
,
however
,
was on the other side
,
locked out
,
spinning my wheels
,
futilely searching for the key
.

Over the years
,
I had been to therapists
,
doctors
,
and healers
.
I had used homeopathy
,
kinesiology
,
acupuncture
,
and acupressure
.
I read books and had
written some of my own
.
I regularly searched through magazines
,
clipping out articles
,
looking for clues to the key
.
I had attended workshops
.
I talked to
people
.
I talked to God
.
I practiced the tenets of the faith I was raised in
,
and believed in
—
Christianity
.
Then
,
I exposed myself to the other great religions
of the world
.

In my youth I had tried alcohol and drugs
,
thinking they were the answer
.
I had used and abused LSD
,
cocaine
,
heroin
,
and morphine
.
I ingested marijuana
,

alcohol
,
barbiturates
,
and amphetamines looking for the answer in mind
altering
,
chemically induced spiritual experiences
.

Later
,
I looked for the answer in relationships
.
Then
,
I thought the answer was to avoid romantic relationships
.

I tried Gestalt therapy Transactional Analysis
,
hypnotherapy prayer
,
and meditation
.
And over the last twenty
three years
,
I had participated in more than
one Twelve Step program
.

I used affirmations
.
I listened to tapes
.
I felt my feelings
.
I monitored my thought process
.
I served others obsessively
.
Then I redefined service
,
so that I was
serving joyfully
,
rather than

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compulsively
.
I struggled to love myself I learned to be assertive
.
I dealt with my glaring codependency issues
,
my sense of nonexistent self and my clinging

vine dependency
.

I then marched dutifully forward into the grinding work so many people have come to love and know as family
of
origin work
.
I began the grueling and
eternal process of detoxifying
—
or healing
—
my repressed and embedded emotional blocks and correlating limiting beliefs
,
these so
called barriers to
wisdom
,
fulfillment
,
and enlightenment that I had accumulated since time immemorial
.
Hooray
,
I finally found and healed my inner child
.
I nurtured her
.
I
loved her the best I could
.
I even had a fuzzy teddy bear
,
God bless John Bradshaw
,
stashed in the closet in my library
.