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The Pilgrimage |
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“Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.”
~Matsuo Basho
When I left LA on May 19th for a simple work trip to NYC, I had no idea what kind of excursion I was really embarking on. Shortly after my computer crashed, I hit the road for what was supposed to be a 12-day jaunt to the East Coast. I figured since I was going East anyway, after working, I may as well travel home to see the family--since it’s been a year and a half. Now June 11th, I have been on the road for 12 days longer than I expected to be and have another 10 in front of me. Needless to say it has been a long and winding trip back...I’m not really homesick per say, although I miss my cozy home. My routine. My bed. I was born in NYC and spent the most formative years of my life being pushed around in a stroller taking it all in, so, more than anywhere in the world, New York speaks to my core and feels like home in a way that no other place does. But currently I am “home” in the town where most of my family resides, where my summers were spent, where I can’t take a step into a CVS, a Stop-n-Shop or the beach without running into someone from my past, where memories of my grandparents, now deceased, are ever-present. This place too, is another definition of home. Being that I spent most of my upbringing moving, asking me where I am from is asking for a 20-minute story of origin. “Home” was always a relative term.And while this trip has taken me out of my bubble of comfort I have created in LA on trains, planes and automobiles, through many different versions of the word home--it has taken me deep, deep within the recesses of my soul. It’s been a while since I have written anything and a lot has transpired in that time. So much so that I almost feel like a completely different person staring at the daunting blank whiteness that currently stares back. The cursor blinks as if saying, “Well? Where the hell have you been?” I hesitate and begin to type…Ah yes…this is truly home…No matter where in the world I find myself, my soul is writing about it. Whether the Voice is narrating the experiences as they unfold on the concrete streets of New York City, the magical train ride through the idyllic Connecticut sea towns of my childhood, or the simple moments of joy and laughter with family and friends—this voice, the Voice that so badly wishes the world could see through its eyes—demands to be heard. At all costs.My current gypsy life aside, the vehicles for the Voice's expression have been thwarted by circumstances out of my control. My computer crashed. It has since been somewhat restored. I say “somewhat” because somewhere in the crash I lost half my screen. The other half is black. But if Solzhenitsyn can write Prussian Nights on a bar of soap line by line, day by day, or Monet can paint with cataracts covering his eyes, or Beethoven doggedly composes his ninth symphony while friggin’ deaf—I figure the least I can do in their honor is to write a silly little blog with half a functioning computer screen. The other, more important matter that silenced me was fear. Without really getting into it, my virtual boundaries were not being respected. After many, many, many repeated attempts were ignored politely asking for my space—I was forced to take more drastic measures to protect my inner peace. Things spiraled out of control pretty quickly. A barrage of hundreds of angry e-mails followed. Then came threats and hateful comments on my website, my Facebook and the web pages of my current employers that I had to explain. Friends of mine were contacted. Family members were mentioned. Feeling overexposed, scared and defenseless against the rage, like a snail, I quickly retreated back into my shell. I pulled the plug on everything and over night, with the click of 4 buttons, made my entire online persona—Bridget Phetasy—disappear.This incident really made me pause: do I have what it takes to continue to put myself out there? This is not an isolated incident and I am sure not the last of its kind. Much soul-searching ensued. Again I look for inspiration from people much more courageous than myself: Rosa Parks refusing to stand up. Nelson Mandela laughing when the prison guards beat him. Martin Luther King Jr. marching despite the threats on his life. I may just be writing a silly blog—but I aspire to be bathed in the same light my heroes were bathed in and intend to walk their fearless walk—even if it kills me.I would be lying if I said I wasn’t afraid of dying. Ten years of yoga and meditation, reading the ancient spiritual teachings and hundreds of self-help books isn’t enough to undo tens of thousands of years of evolution. The fight-or-flight survival instinct is programmed deep in the recesses of our minds, our automatic nervous system, our genetic programming…and it’s not going away any time soon.But my life’s journey has made me realize (and constantly reminds me) there is a death I am far more afraid of than my physical end—and that’s the death of my spirit. I have emergency ejected from a lot of paths in the name of honoring the silent scream of my soul suffocating. More than the physical damage I was doing to my body—it was looking in the mirror and seeing my soulless eyes that inspired my desire to quit using heroin. When I was killing myself in the restaurant industry—despite taking a pay cut, financially strapping myself and eventually going bankrupt—I woke up one day and just quit, realizing the industry was sucking the life force out of me and toxic for someone with my self-destructive tendencies and powerfully creative mind.That silent scream is what inspired me to leave my loveless marriage, when I looked around and realized I was trapped in a prison of my own making, no matter how hard it was to dismantle or what I had to leave behind. It’s what inspires me to love men fearlessly and tell them so, even in the face of rejection and seemingly never-ending heartache, knowing that at least I give it my all. It is what gives me the courage to get on stage and try my hand at stand up. In fact, that persistent, inner Voice is responsible for this entire website. The source of this Voice, is connected to something else; something much bigger than my puny reason, my ego, my lame excuses and even lamer justifications for staying stuck or living in fear. It’s a light and that light never goes out.
The source of this Voice is the place where—despite the near enemies, blind ambitions or false prophets that may lead me astray—“Home” truly exists; and no matter what necessary suffering, disorienting change and fears I must face to find my way back, I will do whatever is required to make that journey. Or die tryin’.
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