First we all produced our own CD, using a digital garage band to pretend we had a group. Then we self-published our own bestseller, imitating someone else's imitation of someone else's fake versions of Rumi and Hafez. Now we've reached the final stage: we're all self-appointed spiritual teachers.
This body is a hot mess on the kitchen floor, fingernails engraving hieroglyphs of grief in the linoleum. But almost instantly we can prop our higher chakras in front of the computer to give a guided zoom meditation, our lower ones garbed in the same pajama bottoms we've been wearing all week.
Hypnotized into what they think is "meditation" by our carefully cultivated life-coach voice, everyone feels great. For about 20 minutes. Then we shut down our PC and descend into the garage to scream at the teen-aged daughter, still asleep in her car. Obviously she wasn't social distancing last night. Reminder to self: at the next boomer-zoom, talk about "trauma." People love it. The new "holier than thou" is "more traumatized than thou."
It's four o'clock. Time to do a bottle of Cabernet. Just another day in the life of a new age spiritual teacher, whose avatar, the version everyone knows on line, is a disembodied stream of electrons in an underground fiber optic cable, a slick emoji with a digital smile, and digital tears. I'll take your workshop if you take mine. 😂
1 comment:
Holy Brahmin cow, Fred. I have seen that so many times. I have been that hot mess so many times. And I have learned and been encouraged by the wisdom that we are never done, so even while our angst is simply at bay, what we have of beauty and hope may the light that someone else needs. Thank you for this one. Well...thank you for all your words.
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