Bhagavan Das is this wonderful man. I met him on the beaches of Tulum a couple years ago. It's a place I go often to retreat. Yoga, sun, sand, ocean, stilted Swiss Family Robinson tree hut bungalows dot the 7 mile stretch of funky, wind swept shoreline, the thick tropical forest hiding them right up to waves lapping four steps from your bed.
It's not precious. St. Barts it's not, which I like. It's 40 bucks a night, not 400 or 4000. Those joints can be fun sometimes but generally I like it rougher around the edges. And because of my strange job I either have enough money or not enough, so in the "not enough" times, which are more frequent, I'm glad I can be happy in the 40 buck place. I grew up middle-class, my mom was a social worker, my dad a teacher. I like the rafters and courtside at the Garden. Both are important and fun and valuable perspectives but my people are in the rafters.
So two years ago, I was staying at one of the cheap bungalows and I took a walk on the beach. I looked up from the sea shells and saw this massive mound of man strolling towards me on the beach. He was made even taller than his 6'3' frame by another what seemed like 3 feet of dread locked blonde hair piled up on top of his head. A thousand necklaces and bracelets hung from him and nothing else. Other than that he was buck naked. He was celebrating a friend's birthday by wearing his own birthday suit all day long. Genius.
I knew his friend, the birthday girl he was walking with, an old party girl restaurateur turned yoga teacher named Trixie. I hadn't seen her in 15 years.
"Trixie?"
"Oh my God. Eric. How are you?"
"Perfect. And you?"
"So good."
"Do you know Baba?"
"No. Hi. Eric."
"Hi. Baba." The jolly Santa Clausian love emanating from this colorful naked giant brought tears to my eyes. I knew his music well. I had practiced yoga to it often.
"It's such a pleasure to meet you. I love your music."
"Oh, thank you. I love you." It rolled off his tongue so naturally it was like the hum of the wind. Completely disarming. We chatted for a few minutes and Trixie invited me to come to a party they were throwing to end their yoga retreat up the beach a hundred miles or so in a neighboring village called Morales I think.
"That sounds fun. I'll be there. Thanks for the invite."
"Great. See you tonight," Trixie said.
"Thank you, I love you," Baba said again, and they turned and left.
I quickly understood that the reason he said "Thank you, I love you" the way most of us say, "Thank you," or "Hello," or "Goodbye" or any other number of polite responses, was because, well, why should we say anything else?
If we were to say "Thank you, I love you," instead of hello or good bye wouldn't we all be a lot happier? What about even saying it instead of "Fuck you." Can you imagine? It would be infectious.
The world would change overnight.
Over.... Night.
I got home to New York a couple days later and was dying to try out my new toy. I met my friend Blair and we got on the subway, heading downtown. It was rush hour crowded. A tired, grumpy middle aged black woman somehow was in-between Blair and I, who had been separated in the stampede to find a place in this car. We were all holding the chrome bar above our heads for support. I continued the conversation I was having with Blair as the train left the station. I wasn't shouting but it was a noisy subway train so I had to speak up in order for Blair to hear me. Suddenly, the woman, inches from my face, turned to me and angrily said, "Do you have to talk right past me like that?!"
My first impulse was to say, "Yeah I do. Fuck off." Of course I didn't. I paused, as I have been taught as a spiritual discipline and waited for the grace of God to instruct me. Quickly it did. I smiled at her genuinely and said, "Is it annoying you?"
"Yes it is. Very much." Even though I was smiling, she was ready for a fight. This is New York. We're the friendliest people in the world... it's just sometimes under a few layers of fuck off and die.
"I'm sorry." I said sincerely.
"Uhkay." She grumbled, somehow not satisfied with the outcome even though she had gotten her way.
HERE WAS MY CHANCE!!! I COULDN'T BELIEVE I WAS GOING TO ACTUALLY DO IT!!! FUCK IT. IT'S NOW OR NEVER.
She was still looking at me, hoping I would say anything that might incite a riot. She wanted to take out her day, her life, on me. I looked her dead in the eye...
"Thank you. I love you."
She looked like one of those robots in a bad 70s sci-fi movie whose head explodes from a short circuit or something. She wanted to hit me, scream at me. Something. I mean I must have said "Fuck you, lady. I have just as much right to talk as anyone!!!" She couldn't have heard me right, but she had, and she knew she had. And while she wanted to say "Fuck you, too" back to me, like she was sure I had said to her, of course she couldn't and had only one alternative.
Half heartedly, in spite of every cell in her body that was crying out for her to say something else, in spite of a lifetime, a collective unconscious of generations of anger begging her to spit in my face, kill me with hate, instead, she quietly mumbled, "I love you too." And bowed her head. It's as if her mouth was possessed by a mind of its own and was saying words she didn't intend for it to say. She shook her head a little, trying to figure out what had just happened.
But she was calm. That much I could see she knew.
Blair almost broke out laughing. She could not believe what had just happened. Nor could I really. It was beyond my wildest imagination of how it would go, trying out this lovely grace from Baba for the first time.
Blair and I got off at Times Square.
"Have a nice day," I said to the lady.
"You too." That she could handle much more easily. She had said that before. She was just grateful I hadn't said, "Thank you, I love you" again. I didn't want to blow her out of the water. Baby steps.
Whenever I'm used as the object of misguided hate from people who for whatever reason are too afraid to look inside themselves at the real source of their fear and pain and hate, which has absolutely nothing to do with me, as hard as it is because it can set off my own unresolved pain and fear and make me forget that their hate has nothing to do with me really, I just say, "Thank you, I love you." And like a poof of magician's smoke hiding his false slight of hand, their power to take me down with them disappears, and I am free. Free to say and really feel love, which is really all any of us want.
So again, I say, haters, thank you. I love you. Baba, thank you. I love you. Trixie, thank you. I love you. And of course, to all the rest of you, thank you. I love you.
Life is short. We're all going to be dead really really soon. Believe me, I know it's scary to think who you'll be if you drop the self hate, but trust me, the small amount of time I'm able to, it's really not that bad. You don't explode like a robot and the ability to like, even love, feels really nice. Try it some time. What do you have to lose? "Thank you. I love you."
P.S. As I have previously announced, I'm psyched to report that the link to the page to pre-order my book on Amazon is up as you can see. If you're so inclined, you can get it now. I saw the first galleys (the actual book, not a manuscript) and being the first time I ever saw galleys as this is my first book, I felt as excited as the first time I saw the dailies of my first film. It made it all seem terribly real. I hope you guys like it. I think you will. And thanks to any of you who get it. It's for you.
Posted by Eric Schaeffer at 12:07 AM