Alana's Dharma Blog

It has been over 3 years since I began this blog and, before we move to the next ‘chapter’, I want to reflect from the present day perspective a bit about some of what I have learned.  The blog idea originally came from Neecha, but back when she suggested it –over 7 years ago — I felt like I was not ready to share my practice with the world, frankly I felt like doing so would make me a fraud: Who was I anyway? Not some great practitioner I assure you, just an every day gal with an everyday life. No one blog-worthy and that was that. Until…

Until that fateful mini-retreat, and Dharma Meltdown 2.o , when a little dirt on my beige pants had me sobbing in tears because I was so sure it was ‘proof’ of my impurity — ie. bad Buddhistiness. A little baby shake from Neecha, some contemplation on my meltdown and presto: My meltdown problem was solved PLUS I was finally ready to write this blog. When I was ready, I was ready because I decided that I may have held a wrong view — the view that my idea of what a good Buddhist actually is may not be the whole picture (a wrong view  strengthened through my interpretation of particular rupa, like perfectly white robes). There could be other stuff (stuff suggested in forms and behaviors that comprised my practice, like keeping a notebook) that made me a ‘good Buddhist’ or at least blog-worthy practitioner. And so, a blogger was born and, frankly I am glad she was because there has been a great deal of advantage that I have gotten from the practice of keeping the blog: Forced consistency in my practice, the chance to review old stories and to strengthen my understanding of the truths I uncovered, the ability to practice thinking analytically about my wrong views.

Recently though, I have come to see there is a even deeper wrong view that underlies this whole endeavor…I have been contemplating self and self belonging with renewed vigor in the last few months and after having my nails done I looked down at them and was surprised to see the paint chipping off fairly quickly. I thought to myself, “I have been being so careful, how are these things chipping so soon?” Then it hit me like a ton of bricks, the nature of nail polish is to chip, left alone long enough that is the way it decays; at most I am a factor in helping it stick around longer or chip faster, but I was never the cause. It is in the nature of white (or beige) cloth to become dirty — how in the fuck did I ever think that this was about ME? That it proved something absolutely in ME? That I should be able to  conquered this aspect of impermanence and not doing so is a personal failure (talk about fuel for eternal becoming). Woohoo Egooo… 

Enter Ego: I run around this world ‘interpreting’ signs in rupa, reading tea leaves, looking for meaning and every sign, every leaf, every micron of meaning always points back to me. But a tea leaf is just a leaf: It is made up of 4 elements and it (like everything else in this world) is subject to the three common characteristic, the only meaning in it is the meaning I imagine to be there. And the problem with my imagination is it has a singular agenda — creating and sustaining ME.

Beginning this blog sprung from my usual ‘epic’ struggle between being A (some version of good) and being B(some version of bad), but either way, I believed MYSELF to BE a SOMETHING. A part of me felt like this blog would prove/make real the idea I had of alternate good Buddhist, one who kept notes and diligently practiced, even if I couldn’t keep white clean.

Enter Truth: The good news My Friends is that Rupa doesn’t actually lie; instead of using it to tell falsehoods and build the self we can use it to  shed light on truth.  Just looking back over my blog is quite fine evidence that the great ME has changed a hell of a lot. You see, originally I believed I could use this blog to create some orderly narrative:  A series of stories, written post-facto, that showed my progress as it occurred. Sure, there was going to be change (cataloging it was sorta the point), but it was going to be controlled, hedged, turned on and off by MY WILL so that at any given moment I could ‘drop into’ my old self and tell it like it was. But here My Friends is where I admit the lie —  Today’s Alana can never speak with the voice of yesterday’s Alana. I know because I find myself regularly looking through my past notes and trying to reconcile exactly what I will blog when I just can’t un-see the things I have seen since the old story. I can’t really find or feel the meaning I know I once gave something, it has becoming too jumbled with new scenes and new meaning and new knowledge and new beliefs that have arisen in the interim.  Yesterday Alana and Today Alana are not the same, so where exactly is this ME anyway? And while there has clearly been a progression of this path, I sure as hell can’t swear by the meaning I read into each story, better yet the whole story arc.

And yet, I have every intention of continuing to forged ahead, to practice and to blog as I am able. But it is not to prove I am a Good Buddhist. It is not to become a good Buddhist. It is not to become anything at all, rather it is to un-become. To revisit each story as an opportunity to pick at the truth, to expose the wrong view, to feed my imagination the information it needs to forged ahead with a new agenda — unraveling and undermining ME.

I dedicate this blog, my practice, and all the merit  I have created in past and present life to entering The Stream as quickly as possible: Now, this week, this  month, this year, at the most in this life. To having the wisdom to uproot my wrong views, the parami to become enlightened, the energy to keep-on-keeping-on and the removal of any obstacles that might stand in my way. If I am born at all I ask to be born into circumstances of Dharma with true teachers, Kalianametra and on the path. May all the causes, conditions and factors that need to arise in order for me to become enlightened, arise and result in my enlightenment pronto!

Before we set sail to New York, Eric and I decided to go on a 3 week holiday to Europe. I planned every last detail, booked us in the nicest hotels, chose upgraded flight seats, researched the best activities and routs. With so much prepping, preparing and thoughtful packed I couldn’t imagine anything going wrong. But, its travel –its life–so of course, plenty did go wrong. Some stuff was just inconvenience, some funny missteps or misunderstandings. But there were a couple of incidents that made me so angry, so indignant, because the were simply NOT FAIR:

• Verizon — I had gone to Verizon and set-up an international phone plan before I left. But when we got to our first stop and I tried to use my phone, I realized that, contrary to what I was told at the Verizon store, my plan had not been set-up. I tried to get help online, but was unable. Ultimately I ended up having to call customer service, and pay international calling rates, to speak to a representative that could get my plan up and running. I was livid — it wasn’t my fault, and yet I had to pay just to fix a sales rep’s mistake. NOT FAIR!

•  Hotel  Booking — I had booked a room at a nice hotel in Malta and confirmed that the booking was all arranged and in good order before we left the US. I arrived at the hotel and they told me they had canceled my booking. No one new exactly why, however it happened. With a conference in town, the rates for their last remaining rooms had gone-up by nearly 2X. My choices were to book a more expensive room or leave and hope that, despite the conference, I could find another hotel room somewhere else. I felt extorted, I had prepared, done everything right, and yet here I was, and it was NOT FAIR!

• ‘Premium’ Airline Seats — For my flight home I booked ‘premium bulkhead seats’ with extra legroom in front. But, the airline had neglected to mention that the bulkhead area, though not technically an aisle, was the easiest way for the majority of passengers to go to and from the bathroom. As soon as I sat down, the flight attendants began to apologize. I soon learned why — every 2 minutes someone was stepping on my feet trying to get to the bathroom. There was an announcement that passengers should not use the bulkheads as an aisle. The flight attendants even tried blocking-off the ‘premium seats’ with luggage. But ultimately there was no way to stop the flow of passengers stepping on me for a 14 hour flight.  These were the seats I had paid extra for: It is so NOT FAIR.

What was supposed to be a relaxing vacation was punctuated by these moments of such intense stress and anger. In my darkest moments — as I waited on hold, paying by the minute, for Verizon, as I stared incredulously at the hotel clerk who told me my confirmed reservation had been canceled, as I was trampled by someone going to the bathroom just as I was about to nod off — I kept thinking, “Do you know who I am?”, “This is so not right!” ,”I’M GOING TO GET YOU FOR THIS.”

I had an expectation (permanent thought) of how things should go, of what I deserved based on my level of preparation or my payment. When it didn’t go as I expected I felt personally wronged, I felt angry and I wanted revenge for being made to feel small, unimportant and out of control. But is it really not right? Can it really be ‘not how things should be,’ when it is actually how things are?

I have a delusion about the way the word works –according to my standards. But clearly right according to Alana isn’t permanent and True; it’s not the rule that governs the world. I am here, born, I put myself on planes and in hotels, into this body and this life. I am the one that comes up with my own standards and I am the one that fools myself into believing those standards are absolute. Who else can be blamed for my disappointment, discontent? Who is worthy of my revenge other than I myself?

It was a sorrowful farewell : I pulled the Porsche out of the garage for the final time and drove that tearful trail to Carmax. I took the wayward path, top-down, enjoying one last twisty turny mountain path before I hit the parking lot and went to speak to the dealer about making a sale. We were moving to NY City and the car had to stay behind. I would miss her, but I figured I could take the money for the trade-in and save it for another car later on.

It was a shock, a slap in the face, when the Carmax folks came back with an offer that barely covered the rest of the car payments. The Pro came-out to explain; that slight catching feeling I had noticed during acceleration, it was a mechanical problem — some serious $$$ repairs were necessary, so it decreased the value of the car.  It made sense, plus I had no choice with a plane to catch in just 2 days. I took their offer and left, too angry, hurt and ashamed to even look at that Porsche before walking out of the lot and to the train station.

I sat on the train and seethed — I felt so angry, deceived, ashamed — in my mind that car was so valuable, so precious. I had spent so much time, energy and care to own and preserve it. I did it, because it had ‘proved’ my wealth, my status, my on-top-of-the-fucking-worldness, for so long… and then, in the end, it proved me a fool.  It was like a husband who makes me feel so special, only for me to learn I’m but one of 100s of their lovers: Used.

“That fucking car lied” I thought.  But really, did the car whisper its worth in my ear? That car never lied to me, I lied to me.  I saw that rupa (form) and I imagined a value. In fact, I imagined a whole fairy tale with me as the buttoned-up, well-to-do, heroine with a fast and flashy car; so clever, so poised, so on-top-and-in-charge. A broken, worthless car, wrecked my fantasy — it told a different tale, one of a person who can’t preserve or control their shit, one who is hoodwinked by flashy baubles, an anti-hero loser in the end. The problem with believing my own fantasy is that reality will always, ultimately, make itself known…so is the fantasy really worth it for the temporary, delusion-based happiness it brings?

Now I have no car, no money and a whole lot of disappointment. And who set me up for that? (Me obviously).

I was walking along and suddenly got to thinking back on something strange I had seen a few years before: I was at a construction site, filled with tools and equipment, and near the center of the room was a ladder that had a post-it-note securely taped to it. The note, written in big black marker read, “Mine not yours.”

I assume the owner of the ladder had put up the note to let others know the ladder was his/hers. But, ironically, the message made it sound like the ladder belongs to any reader who reads the note. After all, when I read, ‘mine not yours’, I do so from my own perspective;  the voice in my head thinks of itself as the ‘me’ not the ‘you’.  If ownership is something that requires my or your perspective, then is it something universal? Is it capital T true?

Can a note  keep the ladder ‘faithful’ and prevent it from allowing itself to be used by someone else? Can it keep the ladder from ‘walking away’, being taken by some other worker? Can it keep the ladder from falling or breaking or losing structural integrity? The note actually tells the real truth: if my ladder, my belongings, obeyed me they wouldn’t need a note in the first place.  What is mine would act like it was mine and it would be plain for all the world to see.

Instead, a ladder, like all objects, has a ‘life of its own’. It is a combination of parts, it has a moment in time (birth) at which all those parts come together, it has a period where –like Shed– it maintains its ladder function and form (life), and ultimately it will come apart, erode, decompose, break, i.e. die. While it exists, the ladder has ‘rules of its own’, ways it can be used, limits to its function and strength and structure. Ownership can’t change any of this, and the concept of mine-ness, born from my perspective, oblivious to the reality of the object is as flimsy as the sticky note it was written on.

It was a beautiful sunny day, and since I was already on an errand in Oakland I decided to pay a visit to the historical Mountain View Cemetery, just to check it out. I went into one of the crypts and was struck by how massive it was — hallway after hallway, 4 stories tall, and that was in just one of dozens of buildings. It was like a maze. I looked at one wall, filled with names, and I realized… all these plaques look almost exactly the same. Each of these people once had lives like mine. They had families, things, activities, etc. But every person, every BODY, ends up the same.

I have a body too. Just like every other object in my life, I use it on its terms. When its hungry I feed it. When it is tired I sleep it. I think this body makes me special somehow, unique. But I clearly don’t control it, because whether I like it or not, just like every other BODY of every other person in that crypt, it will die and decay. I will be just another name on some wall somewhere.

I started thinking about my wedding dress. Like every other dress, it is made of spun threads. It had an origin: a bolt of fabric somewhere. But for some reason (i.e. my memory and imagination) my mind persuaded me to believe that the form the dress temporarily took — the particular color and shape — made it special, made it more than just a pile of fabric. And when I put it on, the dress made me feel special, it transferred its specialness to me.  I thought the dress reflected my beauty, my uniqueness, my edginess (it was red). I thought I could stand-up in front of everyone wearing it and prove what a catch-I was. How desirable I was, how lucky Eric was to score me as a wife…

I am finally starting to understand that rupa is the props that I use to sell myself the lie of my own specialness. It is the decoration that makes me mistake one dress (or one body) as so much better than/ different from the rest, when in fact all dresses are made of the same things, have the same function (clothing) and will all be torn or destroyed or rot in some other way.  On retreat I had started thinking about the dolls I used to play with as a kid. I would dress them-up in special doll clothes and then tell a story. Imagine a life for them. The clothes, the accessories, the car or the horse were a central part of the story I told. I never just played with naked dolls, there was no story there.  The story may be in my mind, but there is no way to play it out, to make it feel compelling and true, without the props.

But just like Rupa can sell me the lie, I can also look to it to learn the truth too. After all, it is no secret that sooner or latter my day in the crypt will come. No dress, no body, no hope, or prayer, or power in this universe can prevent my joining the ranks of all the other folks who are now just name plaques on a wall. How special will I be then and how special am I now if I share the same fate as everyone else?

The Story

My husband’s boss up and quits — it wasn’t exactly unexpected, she had been unhappy for a while.  But what was unexpected was that my husband wasn’t immediately promoted to her position; he was the most qualified, had been groomed to be her successor, it was, we thought, ‘in the bag’. Only, it wasn’t ‘in the bag’, and now my husband and I started to stress about his career and what came next.  Not getting the big boss job felt like a career set-back, plus someone new was likely to come-in and fire/demote all the senior staff so they could bring in their own people. Either way, it wasn’t looking good for my husband. This was bad…

Or was it? Dharma practitioner Alana started to contemplate on impermanence. I recalled my jury duty story, a time when I was so happy about an outcome until a little later when that same outcome made me sad — there is impermanence in my desires.

I thought about my last trip to the GYN: all year, I feel fine, so I don’t worry — I have the wrong view that since I was healthy before, since I feel healthy now, it will always be the case. But when I am in the Dr’s office, waiting for my exam, my mind fills with the threats of cancer and disease and troubling test results. But the truth is if the Doc finds something today it was likely there yesterday too, I just didn’t know it yet — there is impermanence in my body, my life, I am just not always aware of it.

Which brings me back to my husband and his job — we thought he would be promoted,  for sure. But whether we are aware or unaware of the uncertainty –aka impermanence — of his job, it was always there. We were upset simply because we were seeing what was always there for the first time.  The thing is, this uncertainty that surprised us when my husband didn’t get promoted can just as easily surprise us again and a different, possibly better way down the road. Or, the situation can stay the same, but our desires can change and we can be happy with this non-promoted outcome that seems so devastating right now. Likeliest of all really is that the two-sided nature of reality shows its face and we get an outcome that we see as good in some ways and bad in others.

Wandering around a cute little town in Napa, starving, my yelp app navigated me to what looked like the perfect lunch spot, a restaurant called Ad Hoc. I walked up the front steps  to peek out the menu and I saw a huge sign above the door that read, ” Ad Hoc — for the temporary relief of hunger”.

After lunch, once my hunger was temporarily relieved, I started thinking more about that sign…here I was in a fancy foodie town,  feasting on fancy foodie food and its so easy to forget exactly what food is actually for: the temporary relief of hunger. And yet, in my delusion, I often think it is so much more…

When I sashay down the aisles at Whole Foods, I feel like I belong in its foodie paradise. When others mispronounce food names –gyro, acai, poke — I silently pat myself on the back for being ‘in the know’. When Eric cooks a gourmet meal for a crowd, I beam with pride to have such a gourmond husband. For me, food is about feeding my identity as much as it is about feeding my body.

The problem is, can food actually make me a thing? When I tried my hardest to eat healthy my blood work kept coming back with high blood sugar –food didn’t make me a healthy person. When I was a vegetarian I made my whole family slaves to my dietary ‘needs’ — food didn’t make me compassionate. When I ate all the fancy restaurants in town did it make me fancy? How can a physical object I use for a brief moment in time imbue me with an abstract quality, an identity? After all, when I look under the burger bun, under the lettuce, tomato, meat paddy, I just don’t see ‘foodie identity’ lurking in any particular ingredient.

I was sitting on the beach in Maui, surveying all the stuff I had brought along on my sun and surf outing: sandals- mine, hat -mine, kindle – mine, beach chair – borrowed, beach towel-borrowed, beach games -borrowed. All these objects –mine and borrowed — just jumbled together, it made me start thinking what exactly is the difference between the two? I know, I know, in a conventional sense the mine stuff comes back home to SF, the borrowed stuff stays at the Maui beach rental. But in a dhamma sense, why do I feel so differently about these two categories of objects? Aren’t they essentially the same? After all, they are both just sets of rupa objects, living in a rupa world.

In this weeks blog I will share notes from an exercise I did exploring how I might apply the technique I successfully used to kill my obsessive fear to greed/desire for my belongings. Since this draws directly on my past contemplation it will be helpful to you, Dear Reader, to go back and re-read the Killing the Fear blog here.

After I saw fear wasn’t fixed/didn’t live in a situation, I was able to conquer it by realizing 2 things:

1. Just because I am going to die, it does’t mean I have to constantly worry about it: Death happens when the conditions for death arise, my fear and worry are totally irrelevant in this process.
2. There is no necessary relationship between what I feared and what actually happened. There were times I was afraid and sure enough something bad happened; times I was unafraid and yet something bad happened; times I was afraid and  nothing bad happened and times I was unafraid and nothing bad happened.

With my friend and my french fries I had already come to see that just because my stuff is finite it doesn’t mean I have to constantly worry about not having enough. After all, both the objects and my desires are impermanent. So what remains to be investigated is whether or not there is a necessary relationship between desiring something and getting something. And furthermore what is the relationship between getting an object and an outcome. Do the objects always lead to good outcomes? Do they do for me what I want them to do? If so, for how long and in what circumstances?

I desire and I get something: I have countless examples that fall into this quadrant. I wanted my house and I got it. I wanted purses and clothes and I got those too. I wanted Eric as a husband, I wanted my job after my interview, I wanted to learn to do yoga … I got all that I wanted on these fronts.

I don’t desire and I get something: When I was a kid, my dad brought me home stamps and we started collecting together. It was my Dad’s desire, not mine, and yet I ended up with the collection. My house is in fact filled with gifts from friends and family, things I never wanted, never asked for, never sought or prepared for and yet I have them.

I desire and I don’t get something: in other words, desire doesn’t get me what I want/need:  When I was a kid there was this doll that I wanted so badly. Hanukkah was coming up and I told my Mom. I begged, I pointed-out all the other kid’s dolls when we visited them, hoping that I would get that doll as a gift. But for all my efforts, I never did get that doll. My Mom decided to buy me something else instead.

I don’t desire and I don’t get something: I walk through the mall everyday window shopping, looking at hundreds of outfits that I don’t want and so I never go and buy them.  

Sometimes I don’t get what I want and I am fine: There was this jacket I was obsessed with when I was in college. It was expensive, but I wanted it so badly. I want back to the store and visited it over and over, but I never did buy it. Even without the jacket I survived. Other clothes kept me warm. Other outfits had me strutin in style. I didn’t get what I wanted but was totally fine.

Sometimes I get something I want, but it comes with consequences: I got the sweetest pair of LV heels, perfect patent leather with flower studs. Oh I loved them so so much. But, one day, I stepped out of the car wearing them and crack, I fractured my toe. Months later it had’t healed and the podiatrist told me it likely never would: not enough blood flow to fully heal such a small bone in the foot. Now, for the rest of my life I can’t wear heels, I have to be careful how and where I walk, I have to modify my exercises. They were perfect little shoes, but they came with a terrible peril.

Sometimes I get what I want but does that mean it does what I think it does?

• My shawl didn’t keep me a Tibetan Buddhist
• My Porsche didn’t exactly make me feel awesome and chic while on retreat
• I believed my wedding ring was a sign of my strong marriage, I lost the ring but the marriage survived just fine
• No princess outfit ever made me a princess and no white(ish) pants made me feel like a good pure Buddhist
• My z cavaricci jeans never did make me popular

It all comes back to the dentist and the green purse

Once upon a time I went to a super mean dentist who abused me. So for years and years I feared going to the dentist. Long after the og meany was dead and gone I refused dental treatment out of fear the big baddies would get me. But when I realized that things changed: new dentist, new alana, new technology, new circumstances, I bucked it up and went for a root canal and guess what it wasn’t so bad. A key piece of evidence that ultimately helped me get over paralyzing fear rooted in the wrong view that what had been before/ what I believed would be = to reality.

I had one green purse and it ‘worked’ for me. I got a few complements, Eric began to associate me with it, it carried my stuff and I was happy so the idea of what the bag would do for me was born and with it came desire. Desire to have that bag, to preserve it and replace it with a like one should the need arise.Like with fear, want  was rooted in the view that what I had been before/what I imagined it would be = to reality. But circumstances changed, my body changed, my wardrobe changed, my carrying needs changed and so I ended up with a stock pile of bags I no longer wanted/needed.  If I keep building evidence for greed like I did with fear I will have a way to uproot it.

I spent much of the 2017 retreat racking my brain for evidence about myself and this world that might be found in my objects. Finally one object, another article of clothes popped into my mind — a special shawl that was worn by members of my Tibetan Buddhist community when we practiced. I remember when I got that shawl, I was so proud to put it on, so excited to go to the temple to pray wearing it, proving that I was a ‘real member’ of the community, a real practitioner that I fit-in and belonged. But as I began to sour on Tibetan Buddhism, as I began to question my faith, I suddenly didn’t want to wear that shawl anymore. I remember going to a practice and putting it on and feeling embarrassed to be seen in it, like a fraud, like I was trapped as a member of a group I so deeply wanted out of. In my mind, the shawl went from being my badge of honor to my badge of shame in just a few short months but, the actual physical scarf didn’t change at all.

Suddenly it dawned on me, if there was some necessary relationship between the actual scarf (rupa) and my beliefs about the scarf (imagination) then shouldn’t a change in one necessitate a change in the other? If my identity as a good Tibetan Buddhist lived inside the scarf than as long as there was a scarf shouldn’t I have felt like, been, a good Tibetan Buddhist?  Instead I had a physically unchanged scarf, but a totally new imagination of what the scarf did, and what identity I as a scarf wearer had. Shit, between the awesome/not so awesome Porsche and now this scarf, I realized it is quite possible my stuff doesn’t actually do what I think it does at all…

All of this took my mind back to a long long time ago when I realized something else — my faithful frenemy fear — also didn’t quite do what I thought it did (for a little refresher on a scary yoga pose, a deep breath and my seeing fear didn’t live in situations or work to keep me safe see the contemplation here). Mae Yo and Neecha are always telling me to use the same techniques over and over again. So I though maybe I can use the same techniques I used to help eliminate my crazy fear/paranoia to address my greed for my objects. Stay tuned for next week’s exercise on how to use my past success contemplating fear to help me consider greed.

Normally, I love my 911 Porsche convertible. I like to drop the top, cruise to all the fancy neighborhoods in NorCal and imagine people’s jaws dropping as my sexy self, in sleek sunhat and black dress, rolls by rockin out to my favorite tunes. In my mind, the car shows I have made it. It shows I am wealthy and sexy, chic and sleek. It is the ultimate accessory to the successful, vibrant 30-something Alana I like to imagine myself to be myself to be. Except…

The time for the 2017 KPY retreat rolled around and suddenly I realized, with deep embarrassment, I was going to have to drive the Porsche up to the mountain. You see, sleek sexy Alana got rid of her other car so if I wanted to go on retreat, the Porsche was my only ride. Suddenly I felt self conscious. Typically I fantasize the looks I get in the car to be nods of approval, but when I thought about driving up to a Buddhist retreat in something so flashy, ugh suddenly the looks I imagined were of disgust and judgment. I mean really, isn’t it inappropriate? We are all here to contemplate on escaping worldly attachment and I am showing-off my great worldly status and attainment.

The truth is, there are plenty of times I feel self conscious in my car.  I drive through bad neighborhoods quickly, slumping in my seat, praying the gas gauge doesn’t force me to stop in the Tenderloin for gas. I duck into my car after work events hoping donors don’t see me getting into something so expensive lest they think my nonprofit is squandering their donations with fat employee paychecks. I park around the corner when my family comes to town since I don’t want anyone getting any ideas that I am the rich family member they should be asking for financial help. But, once each situation passes, I quickly forget about it. I go back to believing the car does for me exactly what I want it to do — being the perfect accessory for the Barbie fantasy life I am playing-out in my head.

But if I can’t even get my toys to tell me a consistent story all the time, isn’t it evidence that maybe my story isn’t completely correct? I am so easily lulled by my own fairy tales I ignore the Grimm side at my own peril. My wants for fancy cars and outfits and accessories will be as endless as the ability of my imagination to come-up with ever evolving stories for Alana, this lifetime’s star character. But, there is clearly a dark behind the scenes part of this plot filled with embarrassment and danger and the costs and work of acquiring all the  props I need to tell my tales. It is time to stop forgetting and ignoring so that at least this storyteller can tell a more complete and realistic tale.

I was on the 2017 KPY retreat and I suddenly remembered how, as a kid I used to love to play with Barbie dolls: I would come-up with a story line — Barbie the doctor who saves lives, Barbie on beach vacation, Barbie the princess going to a ball to meet her prince — and then I would dress-up the Barbie dolls to fit the story, to become the characters. Each article of clothing I put on a doll was significant, each item and accessory was essential to my tale. When the story was over, I would undress the Barbies to put them away; naked they were uninteresting to me, each doll the same as the next.  Of course, like most kids, I hit an age where Barbies no longer appealed to me and the dolls went into the give away pile with a bunch of other toys.

Now though, I realize I never really did grow out of playing Barbie, its just that as I got older, I became the doll. I look back on my life and see distinct phases, distinct identities, distinct Alanas, all made ‘real’ by the clothes. 

• In college I had all my torn jeans and hippy shirts, I was a free love, liberal Alana trying to fit in and hide my true ‘trust fund hippy’ identity
• Once I graduated and got my first job it was all sacks and cardigans, a sexy librarian look for this young career woman
• After moving to Cali I had to ditch the conservative Texas look to fit-in, so it was all hipster tees and logo sweats to fit in with the new chill California Vibe.
• Until of course I started noticing my body changing, looking older, rounder, saggier and I knew it was time for a refresh so it was boots to make me badass and skirts to make me sexy, but age appropriate, to combat the loss of youth
• As I got wealthier, the clothes got fancier and it was all about the purses and shoes and jewelry to show my financial success
• But then the effort of it all became overwhelming so in with the simple black dress wardrobe for a chic but sensible Alana

With each new phase, the old clothes ended-up in the give away pile. Easy as pie, I never needed to give it a second thought. Some clothed had grown too worn. Some I had been so afraid to ruin by wearing, so almost new they went into the give away pile. Some clothes stopped fitting my body, others were back-up purses and shoes, that I never got around to; just-in case items where the case to wear them never arose before my new style was born. Each item I once saw as precious, as essential to fulfilling my identity as someone who fit in and had desirable qualities (like smart, sexy, bad-ass, sensible), all so easily discarded and replaced. I realize, that just like Barbie dolls, Alana without her belongings is boring, hard to create a story for, my imagination (#4) needs my stuff. Now suddenly, I saw so clearly why Mae Yo always said to use self belonging to get at self.