I Did This

I promised more on the magic we created in Phoenix a few weeks ago, so here’s a story about an unforgettable experience that allowed me to be in the world in a new way.  It was an exercise to practice “dropping into wordlessness,” or attaining a state of calm energy–a place where language doesn’t muck up the stillness, and where we have no attachment to any particular outcome.  It requires a shift away from the left brain, opening space for the things the right brain handles best: compassion, connection and love.

We were asked to pick up a spoon and try to bend it.  Really try.  Try harder.  For all the trying, no one bent a spoon.

Then we were asked to drop into wordless, calm energy that is not attached to an outcome, and that is free from wanting, grasping energy or fear.  We had to feel our connection to the spoon, as we feel a connection to all things on this earth, in a kind and loving, quiet and open way, and only then bend the spoon.

Strike me dead if spoons weren’t bending all over the room!

Of course my own spoon remained rigid in my hands.  I had too much riding on it!  What would it mean if I couldn’t bend the spoon?  Everyone would know that I didn’t make the cut!  But I HAVE to bend the spoon, I NEED to bend the spoon, oh how I WANT to bend the spoon! Fucking bastard still-straight SPOON!

I was the poster child for grasping energy and fear, not to mention attachment to outcome.  The potty-mouth is just a bonus.

I set aside my spoon-bending aspirations for a while.  Picked up the spoon every now and again, casually, acting like I didn’t care if it bent or not.  Damn thing wouldn’t budge.

I now know that I hadn’t yet come to believe that not only was I capable of bending the spoon, but doing so was a done deal, inevitable, fait accompli.  I was still holding on to my fear the next morning, over coffee.  I stirred some cream into my coffee, licked the spoon and dropped it into my briefcase for later consideration, hoping the waitress wouldn’t notice.

That spoon called out from my briefcase all day.  I knew it was there, but I refused to take it out.  Fear.  Wanting.  Stupid spoon.

It wasn’t until late that night, on the plane, that I pulled that spoon back out.  I was listening to “Into the Mystic,” and as Van Morrison was singing,

“Hark now hear the sailor’s cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic.

And when that fog horn blows I will be coming home
And when that fog horn blows, I want to hear it
I don’t have to fear it…”

I began to cry softly.  I reached into my briefcase, pulled out the spoon and bent it.  I had finally allowed myself to surrender to the inevitable, release the fear, and float into the mystic.  My seatmates didn’t seem to notice the weeping lady with the bent flatware, for which I’m grateful.

And I owe the Hilton a spoon.

 

10 Responses to Mind-bending Spoon-bending Magic

  1. Love wordlessness, love the song, love the spoon (love that you do too), and love your writing!

  2. Emily says:

    Woot! I knew you could do it! You are magical, Amy. And now you have a bent spoon as a reminder.

  3. Sandi Shroads says:

    SWEET!!! Loved the image of you, the music, the spoon, the tears, the plane! Welcome to the “Spoon Bending Club”!

  4. Leslie Bixler says:

    Oh Amy, so beautifully described. I love it.
    There’s just one issue that I don’t feel settled with.
    THere is a great difference in spoons. I was able to bend many Hilton spoons
    but never my own hammered metal spoons from home!
    So do I qualify as a spoon-bending love goddess or not?

  5. lynn poulos says:

    i love this and so beautifully written!

  6. Desiree says:

    Very nicely written !!

  7. Jo Tampas says:

    Van Morrison. He bends my spoon. Such lyrical beauty in his musical poems. Congrtulations!

  8. Jody Low-A-Chee says:

    Love you!!

  9. Gina says:

    First time here, and I’m absolutely in love. You had me with the potty-mouth, I should be a bit ashamed to say. But I’m not. Not one bit. Trying the fucking bastard spoon too…not there yet, but your writing will help me get there. And Van Morrison. Love to you.

    • amysteindler says:

      So glad you’re here Gina! All fellow potty-mouth professionals always welcome. Letting go of the outcome is so paradoxical–how can I want something, and let go of it at the same time?

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *