Stop Being Mean to Yourself: A Story About Finding the True Meaning of Self-Love (11 page)

"
I see
—
I
'
m getting
—
that you don
'
t really love yourself
"
she said
.

"
Tell me something I don
'
t know
,
"
I said to her
.

Although I probably wouldn't make it into the Howard Stern SelfLoathing Hall of Fame, I knew I had moments Page 93

when I came close. I had my bouts with selfcontempt, fear, and at times downright selfhatred. I was as prone to betray and deceive myself as I was to allow others to betray or misuse me. But I didn't see that great a difference between myself and most of the people I knew.

The gypsy's words stuck with me for years, implanted in my psyche like a foreign object. I agreed with her; I probably didn't love myself as much as I should. The problem was, I loved myself as much as I could and as much as I knew how.

Looking back, I probably began to glorify the idea of selflove, turning it into an ideal, at that moment. I searched for it as if it were the Holy Grail—hidden, just out of reach, yet a worthy and noble cause. I began to believe that selflove was a static condition, like reaching majority. Once a person is over twentyone, that person is over twentyone forever. I envisioned running around like a Stepford wife, loving myself all the time, not feeling any emotions, not feeling tormented, just glowingly, contentedly (and I might add
nauseatingly
)
loving myself. That description didn't apply to me and probably never would. Yes, I decided over the years, the gypsy was right. I don't love myself.

It's better for me not to consult fortunetellers anymore, not because they're bad, wrong, or necessarily evil, but because I'm too susceptible. It's easy enough for me to hand

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my golden ball of power over to people I can see. I'm also a walking target for unseen entities or those that claim privileged connection to unseen powers. And I have enough misconceptions of my own to unravel—especially about love.

In Aikido, the martial art I've been studying, the student learns to be strong yet gentle, relaxed yet deeply alert and intuitive. The word "Aikido" means "the way of harmonizing and unifying oneself with the spirit and energy of the universe." Learning Aikido is a lifetime commitment. And a student can practice and keep getting better at it as long as she or he lives. The light in that golden ball of power, the one each of us has in our solar plexus, doesn't deteriorate with age. It increases as the student acquires and practices certain disciplines, like rolling forward, rolling backward, and learning to breathe. One day my teacher told me that O Sensei, Aikido's founder, did demonstrations until the day he died. The master even got out of his hospital bed and did a final demonstration of his skills shortly before his death.

These same ideas have now replaced my idealized notions about selflove. Loving ourselves requires a lifetime commitment. It is the art of growing in our ability to live in harmony with ourselves and the spirit and energy of the universe. And if we keep practicing certain disciplines—including breathing—we can get better at it as long as we

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live. Our golden ball of power just keeps glowing more brightly.

Somewhere between abject selfloathing and the grandiosity and narcissism of believing that we're impervious and know best what everyone else in the world should do is that sacred space we call selflove. It is a portal and a gateway. How we find it is a mystery; so is its power to get us to the next place.

While some people say that fear, hatred, and contempt are the opposites of love, I don't see life as such a tidy package of dualities anymore. I believe our fear, hatred, and contempt—even those moments of contempt for ourselves that choke us up and paralyze our voice—are only barriers, obstacles, and blocks to work through on the way to finding that sacred space.

The whirling vortex of energy in Cairo had taken me, in my first few hours here, to the Nile, to the ancient mystical pyramids, to the Sphinx, to Essam, and to the
souk
.

But it had also taken me back to myself. As I sat on the secondfloor balcony in the Arabian health food store sipping my mango drink, the message became clear.

When life turns on you
,
whether that turning is real or imagined
,
clear your throat
.
Speak up
.
Tell someone who cares
.
Most of all
,
learn to tell yourself
The wisdom of the ages may be buried in the tombs of Giza, but it's also buried deep within each of us.

I looked down at the bustling street below. That's when

Page 96

I saw him, across the street from us. I had noticed him for the first time when I moved through the crowded streets on my way here. He caught my interest then. Now I found him compelling. I pointed to the man, then pulled at my driver's arm, trying to get him to put down the
shisha
.

"Who's that?" I asked. "And what's he doing?"

I looked around the room where I stood in the Tel Aviv airport. By now, the crowds of travelers had thinned to one or two people. The entire line of Japanese tourists had cleared security. The subtle methods of the interrogators had sucked me in again.

My palms were sweating. I felt frightened, persecuted, and trapped. I hadn't felt this under the gun for a long time. What was I supposed to do? I couldn't say "I don't want to discuss this" and walk away. It wasn't like talking to the media, or a feisty lover.

I had no choice but to continue telling my story.

Page 97

chapter 7

The Sandlot

I returned to Essam at the Lotus Palace Perfumes the following day. Lotus Palace Perfumes had belonged to Essam's father until the father died. Now Essam and his brother ran the store. They were gentle men and devout Muslims. Although the Ramadan fast continued throughout my stay in Egypt, Essam made sure I ate each day.

He would have the women of his house prepare a typical Egyptian lunch, and the children would bring it to the store: a loaf of bread, slabs of cheese, dates, hot tea brewed with bottled water, and

Page 98

fruit—an orange or a tangerine—to finish the meal and cleanse the palate.

Sometimes at the end of the day, Essam would invite me to join him and any men friends from the village who wandered by for the sundown feast to break the days fast. By then the men would be ravenous. The boys would scurry from the sprawling house next to the shop carrying platters of chicken, rice, and many other Egyptian dishes. Soon the small perfume store would turn into a dining room. We would feast, as Essam passed the platters from person to person, making certain we tasted each succulent dish.

Most of the activity, however, took place outside on the wooden in the sandlot bench in front of the store. During the day and long into the evening hours, the men would gather at the bench. The boys would play and ride horses and donkeys in the lot. Occasionally, I would see a woman vigorously grooming a camel, but to see a woman here was rare. Sometimes Essam would push the stand bearing the small blackandwhite television set outside and position it alongside the bench. Then all the men and male children would gather around and watch.

Although I stayed at a hotel in Cairo, then later moved to a hotel in Giza, the dusty sandlot with the boys and the men, the camels and the horses, the bread and the cheese, and sometimes the blackandwhite television became my home in Egypt.

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On this day, immediately upon my arrival when my taxi squealed to a stop in the dust in front of the store, Essam scurried to the side of the cab. When I started to pay the driver the fare he asked, Essam scowled, shook his head no, and pulled me aside.

"He is overcharging you," Essam said. "Do not just give people the amount of money they ask for. It is considered a point of honor here to negotiate the price of everything. You will not be respected unless you do. Give him half of what he asks. No more," Essam said firmly.

I did what Essam said. Essam and I were satisfied. Eventually the driver was, too.

The taxi driver from the night before had told me about the man in the
souk
,
the one I had found so compelling.

I first saw the man as I was darting through the crowded streets
.
Actually
,
I saw his stick first
,
as the long
,
thin rod came whipping through the air
,
rapping
certain people about the head and shoulders
.

I cringed and ducked when I saw the man whack a shifty
looking young man just a few feet away from me
.
That
'
s getting close
,
I thought
.
I wondered if I
was next
.
Something told me not to worry
.

Later
,
looking down over the crowds from the balcony at the juice bar
,
I could see the man with the stick more clearly
.
He sat on a stool across the street
from me on the corner of a busy

Page 100

intersection
,
perched just high enough so that he was slightly elevated above the heads of the crowd
.
I watched
,
mesmerized
.
At first it looked as if he were
randomly striking out at people with the long
,
thin
,
wooden rod he held in his hand
.
Soon
,
I began to notice a rhythm to his whacks
,
the same chaotic yet
measured cadence I had seen in the traffic of Cairo
'
s streets
.

"
He hits the bad guys
,"
my driver explained matter
of
factly
,
when I tugged at his arm and asked him to tell me about this mysterious man
.
"
There
'
s bad
guys out there
,"
the driver said
.
"
They steal
.
They rob
.
When the man hits them with the stick
,
the people know who the bad guys are
.
And it tells the bad
guys to stop
.''

When I asked if the man with the stick worked for the police
,
the driver said that he didn
'
t
.
From what I could discern from my driver
'
s broken English
,
it
was a self
appointed mission
.
When I asked how the man with the stick knew who the bad guys were and whom he should hit
,
the driver said
,
"
He knows
."

I need one of those
,
I thought instantly
.
I need a stick
.

So much of this civil war with myself had been over this issue. I wanted to attribute kind, generous, benevolent motives to many people and sometimes to the wrong people. That belief system didn't create a world that was nice and kind—it opened a door that let the bad guys in.

In the days to come, I would notice that many of the men and boys of the village of Giza carried a stick. Often, it Page 101

was associated with riding and used to direct a horse, a camel, or an ass. But I began to see that the stick was more than a necessary tool. It was a symbol of protection and power.

Years ago, when I had started learning about setting limits, saying no—
getting a stick
—I thought it was something I would need to do for a short while. I assumed that as I progressed in my life, the situations where I would need to use my stick would decrease and eventually be eliminated. But at each new level of play, an abundance of new situations arose requiring that I pick up and use my stick. Some of these circumstances were obvious situations of manipulation, deceit, or chemical abuse. These situations were simple to deal with and easy to recognize. But many situations at the new levels were far more subtle. The energy patterns were similar.

I'd feel off balance and confused. Something wouldn't feel right, then I would doubt whether I could trust myself and I would be uncertain about what to do next. But dealing with these situations became more complicated. Recognizing them was often tricky.

At first, this had caught me off guard. Slowly I began to understand that I needed to pay closer attention. From shopkeepers to healers to lovers, in personal life and in the business world, a wealth of people are ready to cast their spells on anyone walking softly and not carrying a stick.

It's said that Joan of Arc used to make her warriors get

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down on their knees, confess their sins, and cleanse their souls before going into battle. Maybe she knew intuitively that any lingering, unresolved guilt would muck up the soul and weaken a warrior's power.

In Aikido
,
students learn the art of sending negative energy back to the sender
.
It is an art based on nonresistance
.
Strength and speed are not considered
power
.
Students learn to stay alert and focused
—
not paranoid
—
watching in front of and behind themselves
.

I felt confused at first
—
and for a while
—
when I began studying Aikido
.
Each time my teacher or another student made a move on me in training
,
I would
look at my teacher and say
,
''
What should I do
?
I don
'
t know what to do
."