Alana's Dharma Blog

With the boxes all put away and the final design elements being put on our new home I remembered an old plant that I used to have that would have looked nice in the house, it was an orchid. An orchid that had thrived so well in a sunny spot on my desk and then died, quite quickly, when it had shifted just a few inches to the left, out of the direct sun.

Suddenly it hit me, one of the deepest wrong views underlying my decision to move in the first place: Alana is a special little flower. You see, my orchid had shown me a deep truth of this world — everything single thing is subject to its environment, its circumstances, its factor/conditions/causes.  But, I ignored that plants’ great teaching moment. So, when Eric got his job offer in NY I simply took for granted that happy, cheery, settled and stable Alana could move (a hell of a lot more than a few inches mind you) and things, I, would be exactly the same. You see orchids may be subject to their environment but I believed I  was a special little flower, exempt from the influences of this world.

Had I actually understood this great life lesson before I moved, I can’t say for sure we wouldn’t have gone, but I certainly would have thought about it a lot more critically. I wouldn’t have been so blind in my decision making and blindsided by the result. The truth is, I had evidence way beyond botany; I had moved almost 10 times in the past and each one was a struggle to adjust, a loss of my sense of identity, some were downright despairing. But I ignored so many warnings, the basic truth of this world (impermanence), and I skipped off into a sunset that ended-up leading to many long and dark days in Gotham.

For those of you who are just tuning-in, my new home, New York, is not all I had hoped it would be. Its not what I had imagined. See before the move, I thought my life here would be fun and exciting. I thought my house would be mine, be beautiful, and make life easy. I had a fantasy of Eric and my loving charmed life together, of us embracing the challenges that arose, like a fun new adventure. I was happy, optimistic. I was hopeful.

But then, once I was on the ground, my imagination shifted. Suddenly I started having nightmares of buildings going up to block my windows, of construction disasters, of going broke trying to make it here in NY. I envision the city as a dark, loud and ugly hole that I can only escape on short vacations. I worry it will change me, that the struggle of living here will ruin my relationship.  I feel miserable, trapped. I feel hopeless.

The truth however is New York is what it is — a place with 2 sides, good and bad, a place that is constantly moving and shifting and changing — it abided by this truth before I moved here and it abides by it now that I am here. It abides by it totally independent of me. What has changed is my imagination. When I saw all rainbows and unicorns I was happy. When I saw all tar-pits and booby traps I became sad. My imagination flings me about, takes my heart on an emotional roller coaster and, here is the kicker, what I imagine isn’t even real. Clearly its not real or the imagination wouldn’t have shifted so easily. It wouldn’t have been so one sided and then the other sided. What I imagined to be true would have been true, and that would be the end of the story.

I cause my roller coaster. I cause the suffering of the continual ups and downs. The excitement and disappointment. The hope and the fear. I cause it all with my imagination even though, in reality, all these imaginings, they don’t impact the outcome. They don’t tell how things really are, or predict how they will be (see Killing the Crazy entry for a more detailed analysis of how I divorced my emotion of fear with a necessary outcome. A similar matrix can be applied for how I imagine things will be and how they turn out) .  Basically, my suffering is my own creation.

As part of our move to New York, Eric and I bought a new home in Lower Manhattan. We had seen it once, while he was here interviewing with his new company, and we fell in love at first sight. As soon as we stepped into the sunny loft space we began to imagine our life there  — Eric cooking in the chef’s kitchen, me lounging by the fireplace, all the rooms open to each other so we could feel together even when were doing different things. Even the decor of the former couple was so ‘our style’, funky and artsy and eclectic. It felt like we could just slip in and take it all over, that we could have the charmed life it looked like they had from their photos and stuff. I used the rupa to paint a picture and I believed it with all my heart.

When Eric got the job offer we put an offer in on the home. We didn’t shop around, didn’t bother to try to understand New York neighborhoods or real estate. We were told the house had lot line windows (windows which could need to be boarded anytime if the building next to us is ever sold and developed higher than 5 stories), we knew it needed some work, clearly it was a bit quaint, but we “knew” it was just perfect for us. There was simply no convincing us that the future would be anything other than we imagined it, that the house (which we owned after all) wouldn’t mold to our expectations and be exactly what we wanted it to be. In other words, we were fools with a permanent view of the future and an irrational belief the world, or at least our home, would revolve around us and be in our control..but I get ahead of my story here.

Even before we signed the final papers we started to get jitters. When move-in day came, it became clear that the house size wasn’t just quaint, it was small, too small. The open floor plan had only one small closest and no cabinets, no place to put our stuff. The couple before had ordered their life to fit the house, they made it look easy and sweet. But with their stuff gone, surrounded by my boxes, it suddenly felt impossible.

It also became clear quite quickly that the place needed work, a lot of work, to make it workable for us. We sort of knew we would need some, we thought it would be a fun project to do together, a design to make the place really ours. But after interviewing a few contractors, the extent of the project, and the cost became clear. Suddenly we are looking at all new appliances, a wall getting moved, a flooring riddle I won’t even get into, lighting, electric, and building-wide projects of patching leaks, and updating a lobby, and fixing a creaky old elevator.

With each ‘discovery’ my optimism faded more and more; a place, a project, a home that had so recently been, was supposed to be, a joy was morphing into a burden. Still, in my heart, I kept feeling like the house, its mine, there is something I can do to fix it, to organize it, to make it work, to force it to be what I want it to be.

I was taking a break from unpacking, lazing in a spot of sun one of my lot line windows let in and it dawned on me. My house, my enjoyment of it (or at least of its sunniness), its totally out of my control. Even if I can renovate the place, elfa out every nook and cranny to organize and make space, I am one building sale, one ambitious development project away from literally losing my sunshine. I was crushed. Suddenly I hated the place, hated myself for buying it, the picture I painted was shattered. I saw so clearly that its not really mine. When I thought it would fit my image, play by my rules, exist on my terms I could pretend it was mine. I wanted it. But when I see that something about it I value so much can be ‘taken’ any minute, I don’t even want it any more. This dark-at-any-moment house doesn’t serve me anymore (even though its still light right now, even though its a perfectly fine place to live), it doesn’t bolster me or  sell the deeper more critical picture– ALANA master of her universe, goddess of her relationship, home and life, buttoned up and in control, all I want to be, and all others want me to be, and ME ME ME I I I AM.

But here is the crazy part: None of the information was new. I knew the size of the place, square footage was clearly placed in the listing. I knew of at least some of the upgrades, it doesn’t take an architect to spot appliances older than me. I knew about the windows, it was disclosed.  The house, it never lied to me. It told me the same truth that every object in this world screams loud and clear for anyone to hear — “I will change, fade, decay, cease to be what you want at some moment in time. I abide by my own rules, am subject to my own causes that won’t just adhere to your terms (subtext:  who are you anyway, crazy lady, to think your so special that you can control my fate).” But I had let my own picture, that I had painted all by myself, lie to me. Actually,  I used my picture to lie to myself. When, seriously when, am I going to learn that I am the liar and the sucker who believes my own lies? I believe even though my lies hurt me.

I am surrounded by, swimming in, a sea of my stuff. I can look at each item and remember  how badly I wanted it back when I bought it. My heart believed that that table/rug/lamp would solve my problems, fit perfectly in my space, make my home beautiful. That by extension, these items would make me a sort of person — the sort of person that values beauty, surrounds myself with it, cares enough to have a lovely home filled with lovely things. An adult, a non-slob, someone tasteful but unique.  I wanted these things and I bought them. But the story isn’t over…

I keep catching myself whispering the secret-not-so-secret mantra, “I wish I could just go home to San Francisco.”  I miss my friends, my house, my routines, I miss my old life and I want it back.  But spoiler alert, its not possible, there is no going back. After-all, what would going back really look like? My husband’s job is here now, am I going to go back without him? Or go back with both of us unemployed? In either case, is it really going back to the life I had before? My house is sold, my car sold, my position at my old job filled, none of those are there for me to go back to. And even my friends, after these few weeks, do they still have our weekly yoga time held on their calendar, that Thursday lunch spot free? All I remember San Francisco to be, its moment had come and gone, arisen and ceased, no mantra can wish away the impermanence.

But me, I am in constant denial. I am always trying to repeat the past, recreate those ‘perfect’ moments, make my memories manifest again. I once ate the best pizza in the world and kept going back to the same restaurant again and again hoping to recreate it, but each time it was worse than the first. Burberry had the perfect coat one season, each season after I kept going back, hoping to find one like it, but the cuts, they changed.  I wore that outfit one time and it was adorable, but I put it on again and I was too fat/too pale/ it was too cold/inappropriate for the occasion/ out of season/out of style.

And when I am in the moment, enjoying something, a little part of my mind is scheming, saying, “how can I get this again?” If I  come back to this hotel, can I get the same room? If I come back to this restaurant, can I get the same dessert? Can I buy extra cans of this tomato so I have more later? Can I buy extra ‘back-up’ versions of the same purse, so when the original is beaten-up I still have another one left?

I try so hard, put in so much effort, and then suffer so much disappointment because its always a fail. I can never quite seem to get back the past. Still I try. Still I hope. And that trying, hoping, grasping,  it moves me, drives me, pushes me forward. But it can’t ever return me to where I have been.

Present Day Note: Some of you many know that I did, sorta, in someways go back…about a year after my move I was offered a consulting gig back with my former SF employer that has me spending a good bit of time back out in San Francisco. I jumped at the chance — I missed SF, my friends, my life and this was a way I could at least spend sometime with the people and place I loved, even if it meant spending that time on the road, away from my husband, away from my house and bed and typical routine. I jumped because I thought it would fill a hole in my heart.

So did it? Well, sorta…with the new work situation, my life changed, again. In many ways I find it more satisfying, I feel less lost, more grounded by finding a foot back in my old life and away from NY. But the thing is, the more time I spend out in SF, the more I realize it is not my old life, it is something new altogether. The truth is even more clear than when I wrote this original blog that you really can’t go back. The city has changed, I have changed, my life and circumstances all have changed.

In addition, there is a heavy cost –the plane rides are painful, the weeks away from Eric even more so. The feeling of never being grounded, living out of suitcases, messed-up sleep cycles and this constant fear I am going to forget to do something important are so profoundly stressful. This is the price I pay, this is my suffering, to feed my desire; my desire for a shadow of my former life, for a glimmer of reinforcement of who I think I am.

Dear Reader — When I first made the big NY mistake ove, I did a brief blog series, ‘Interrupting our Regularly Scheduled Programming’ of an orderly progression of my path and instead offered some real-time insights about my move.  Now, I have finally caught-up to moving day and would like to put these blogs back into the ‘proper’ order. So, for those of you long-time readers, you are going to see a few familiar posts, but with the new context, and some new present-day comments. If you are new to the blog then this is a fine time to jump-in…after all, its a new, New York, life.

I have been thinking that moving is a lot like starting a new life, a rebirth. There was a cause to the move, my desire for a better life, to escape things I don’t like and seek out ones I do (in particular, my husband’s old job, which was a huge burden for us both). There was imagination of what it would be like, better, not worse, of course. There is effort, and money, spent to bring the move to fruition. There is the need to rebuild, re-establish my life, my stuff, my sense of self in these new circumstance.

And let me tell you something my friends, this move has been hard. Horribly, terribly hard. Perhaps the details will come in another blog, but suffice it to say, the stress, the effort, the planning, the disappointments have been enormous (ok, one detail, I messed-up a tooth from jaw clenching in my sleep because the noise of honking and sirens and yelling through the night is so stressful). Before, when I imagined all the glitz of a NY life, I didn’t see the dirt, the noise, the crowding, cold, nature-free city I have found myself in. I couldn’t have imagined the work it would take just to move, the struggle to live here, the sense of loss I feel from my old life, and the people in it.

The problem though is I’ll forget. I know I’ll forget, because when I first moved to SF I hated it too. It took time, but I “fell in love” and the horror show it took to build my life there became a distant memory. Sure I know I felt bad at the time, I remember, sort of, but it was worth it right? For the life I eventually built and loved (and then had to leave so quickly…), worth it I’m sure, well sort of, right? For the place that gave me the standards, the ‘norms’ to which I compare my new city and find it so very disappointing (and grey and cold and ungreen and unclean and uneco and unfoodie and unorganic and un friggin NorCal). Worth it…in hind-site, in the haze of amnesia and getting used to things and adjusting and re-imagining that keeps me tied in Samsara (cycle of rebirth). Pain when its raw is so motivational, we all want escape, but as it dulls, as the scar forms, we find a way to move on.

Here in NY the forgetting has already begun. I already find myself adjusting. Finding the noise fades to the background, the dirt becoming less noticeable. Its all better then it was before (my jaw has un-clenched) so it must be all good, right? My expectations, my imagination, adjusting. I get used to it. Familiarity I have come to realize is my nemesis. It makes me forget the pain, it numbs me to the discomfort in the world. It also, as a double F-you, makes the pleasurable less delightful. My first ice cream after being a vegan was the most delicious thing ever, but over time I got used to ice cream again and its just not the heaven-in-my-mouth it was when it was new, unfamiliar.

I however, I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to gloss over my suffering. Its real and it sucks. What it takes to prepare for a new life, to set it all-up just so, to adjust myself, my hopes and dreams its so so hard. And then to tell a story later on that it was all my idea, all under my control, all good in the end, that it was actually fun, built my character, its not true. I don’t want to keep being pushed into a new circumstance by my imagination of what it will be only to be shocked, disappointed and then lulled into complacency as I adjust. I don’t want endless rebirths, thinking each one will be different than the last, that it will be easier, that the trade offs are in my control, that its worth it.

And for all of this, as far from my fantasy as the city has proven to be, did I get what I wanted, a better life? In some ways — my husband’s job, for now at least, seems better and less stressful. But better capital B? How could it be? There are always 2 sides. There are always trade-offs. I imagined only one side (wrong view), knew there would be trade-offs but thought I could hedge, I could control which they were, that things would be on my terms. I was wrong and I feel the sting of it, and the dull ache of an angry tooth…

Please bear with me Dear Reader. This particular blog post is not exactly a Dharma moment. There is no deep reflection, no further questions to pursue, no moral to the story. This is just a little context that I think it is important for you to be aware of before we launch into the New York saga.

I had been pretty happy in San Francisco for many years. But my husband, Eric, struggled with his job and was looking for an exit. When he got a call to interview at a NY company we were psyched. We both went to NY for the interview and used the opportunity to poke around, check-out houses and neighborhoods, see if it would be a good new home for us.

The truth is, the warning signs were already there: I registered how dirty, loud and crowded the city was. I had the thought that we should set aside some of the money we would use on a NY house to also buy a ‘country cottage’ so we could getaway on weekend (i.e. I was thinking about escaping before I ever arrived). I knew from friends, articles, my own 6 month-pre-grad school NY living experience, that NY could be a hard place to live. But I though we were special — I thought money, feeling ‘grounded’, age, wisdom, good karma,  even my Dharma practice and the tools it had taught me, gave us an edge, if not a guarantee, then at least some advantage, that it would all be OK…

Plus, we were getting a bit tired of San Fran: The homelessness, the drug use on the streets, the expense, the traffic, the new breed of tech douchebags bros that  had invaded the city, the crime…it just wasn’t as cool as it used to be. That is part of the reason why, even though Eric actually had another job offer at an SF -based company, we decided we would move and try our luck in NY.  There were other reasons too..I was feeling bored at my job and moving made for an easy transition. I was feeling restless, like I wanted to try new things, to meet new people, to build a new life and identity elsewhere.  So there it is Dear Reader, an important detail I want you to know –we had a choice — we could have stayed, but we decided to go.

In my mind, I imagined New York would be an awesome new adventure. I had fantasies about the days I would spend at the galleries and the nights watching shows on Broadway. Chic, hip Eric and Alana and our chic new NY friends. When our bid on the ‘perfect house’ (a cool, old skool, downtown loft)  that we had seen on our initial interview trip was accepted even more fuel was added to the fantasy fire –a home-base in our new home, a place to nest and feel safe, a perfect lover’s pod, to come back to at night after our days of fun-filled explorations of ‘The Greatest City on Earth’.

When I left SF for NY, I left feeling confident that I had made a good decision about moving.  So many times I had moved before and never had I felt so ‘sure’, so secure, so hopeful for what I ‘knew’ would be a happily ever after. Sadly My Friends, we are at the start of this story and definitely not at a happy ending. So stay tuned for those ‘NY adventures ‘ that I most definitely wasn’t prepared for.

In October 2016 Eric and I left our home of almost a decade, San Francisco, for New York City. Lets just say it wasn’t the cupcake and rainbow experience we were expecting. It was dark. Very dark…

In New York, sleeping dragons awoke;  monstrous sides of my personality, that in sunny San Francisco had lain latent so long I foolishly though had disappeared, came to haunt me. There was hateful Alana. So angry I could kill Alana. Struggles with depression Alana. There was also a wake-up call to the perils of ignorance — my batty blinding guide who I so trustingly, unquestioningly, followed to a new NY life that has brought me tremendous suffering.

But, as Mae Yo has said again and again, suffering is good for the Dharma practitioner. It is motivational, reminding us that this world entails tremendous suffering and that dharma is our only escape hatch. It is also a chance to face our demons, the wrong views that sow the seeds of our continual rebirth (and all the suffering that comes along with it). It is good, as long as we don’t “suffer for free”, but instead learn and grow, contemplate and consider, take accountability and prepare so that we don’t continually make the same mistakes. New York has been a ton of suffering, but I absolutely refuse to have it be for free.

So here it is Dear Reader — the tales of my dark days in Gotham…