Natural Hearing Aid

My ability to hear isn't what it used to be, mostly due to advancing years.  Loss of hearing doesn't happen to the same degree for everybody as they age, but if you live long enough, your hearing will deteriorate.  I suspect that I might be a bit ahead of some people my age in regards to loss of hearing.  And I don't say that casually, believe me.

Listening is one of my favourite pastimes, and the thought that one day I might not be hearing things as well as I do now really bugs me.  A lot.  However, I have a plan to retard the process.  I'm going to talk less, and listen more.  Sound familiar?  Of course it does, because I say that all the time, right here on my little web.  And I have no intention to stop thinking or writing about it because I want to save myself from becoming completely deaf.  I honestly believe that I can do that by listening more and by paying more attention.
I learned very recently that listening can be done with the whole body (refer to previous blurb), and that stillness and quiet, both within and without, are important in the practise of deep listening. Deep listening isn't just done with your ears; it's done with your mind, your heart, and your entire body.  Our posture, facial expressions, and intentions are aids to good listening.
Over the years I've observed that older people who have a history of talking a lot, or too much, or who don't listen, or find ways to make any conversation about themselves, no matter how unrelated (and that's a real talent, believe me), develop hearing loss sooner and to a greater degree than their more taciturn, attentive peers.  Funny how that works.  So imagine my dismay when I realised I'm already experiencing hearing loss.  Yikes!  That's why I've made a vow to ramp up the listening, and to ease up on the talking even more than I already have.  I figure it'll be easier to keep it up now that I'm trying to save my auditory senses.  If anything will shut me up fast, it'll be the thought that one day I might be severely hearing impaired if I don't.  And if you don't understand how I can possibly think that listening more attentively will improve my hearing, then you must be new to my little web.  So welcome.
Anyway, thanks for listening, and blessed be.
- G. P.

When the Pupil is Ready

I recently spent five days deep in the woods with a brave and remarkable group of people, most of whom I'd never met before.  We were all there to learn and heal from the spirit of the ayahuasca plant.  Ayahuasca is native to the the Amazon rainforest, and has been used as potent medicine by the indigenous peoples of the region for over 5,000 years.  The ingestion of the ayahusaca brew is done in ceremony, led by a shaman, or ayahuascero.  The plant is regarded as the mother of all the tens of thousands of plant species of Amazonia.  She is the most powerful teacher I have ever known.
(Henceforth I shall refer to Grandmother Ayahuasca as Grandam A, a variation of Grandma, and changed for ease of pronunciation.  Grandam A. scans better than Grandma, and I'm all about sounding words out loud when I write.  Besides, she truly is a Grand Dame.)
Anyway...

Meeting with Grandam A. requires true courage.  She is a strong hallucinogen, and can bring the psychic traveller face to face with their deepest fears and inner demons.  In fact, the more messed up you are, the tougher the trip is likely to be.  Grandma A. is mighty medicine.
I knew all this going into my most recent journeys, because I had drunk her brew twice last year in Peru.  And it wasn't easy going, let me tell you.  But when I learned that the fabulous female shaman I worked with in Peru was visiting my part of the world to perform three more ceremonies, I jumped at the chance to invite Grandma A. into my home again.  I had unfinished business to do.
A more recent term applied to hallucinogenic plants is entheogen, derived from the Greek, meaning the god within.  Unfortunately, hallucinogens have long been associated with hippies tripping on LSD for recreational purposes.  Ha! Some recreation.  Ayahuasca's primary purpose is to heal.  Only after some good and proper healing is done can the participant hope to experience communion with other realms.  Well, okay...  that's my personal take on it, otherwise I can't explain why I chose to drink ayahuasca again after two harrowing, nauseating experiences with her in Peru.  Unless, of course, I'm some kind of a masochist, and get my jollies from self-abuse and physical torment.  The scary part is, that's a distinct possibility, and something I've known all my adult life.
I'm not unfamiliar with self-abuse, conscious or otherwise, and have scars on my body to prove it.  Years of self-reflection and western-style therapy have helped me overcome these dreadful behavioural patterns - well, almost - but haven't completely eradicated the lingering emotional crap that goes with them.  The childhood trauma that led to these destructive habits was a very long time ago, yet all these years later I still lay blame on the past for recurring problems in the present.  I fancy myself a relatively aware and sensitive person, so rehashing past injuries aggravates my ancient hurt with guilt and shame for not being able to let it go.  I mean, how many times do I have to make the same bloody mistakes before I finally get it?  I thought I was smarter and wiser than that.  It's not that I'm opening old wounds - the worst is long over for sure - but I'm still scratching and cursing at the scars that remain.  And that's precisely why I invited Grandma A. to pay me another visit.
When I was in Peru I participated in the ceremony hoping to commune with all that is - Mother Earth and the Universe.  To put it as prosaically as possible, I was looking for a mystical experience.  I've sought beauty and magic all my life, and was hoping for one big, whopping dose of it with Grandam A.  But Grandam A. had her own agenda, and taking a trip to paradise wasn't part of it.  She is a teacher and healer, first and foremost.  She showed me who was boss right from the get-go.  She told me in no uncertain terms that I can't have it both ways, and what's more, that I didn't deserve it yet.
Grandam A. addressed first things first - my self-destructive habits and deliberate self-abuse.  In the past I've indulged in this gross behaviour for two reasons: 1.) to punish myself, and 2.) to escape myself.  A journey with ayahuasca is about revelation, not escape, but I still had hopes that I'd have glimpses of Grandam A's magnificent, magical world of flora and fauna.  But no such luck.  Grandam A. went to the very heart of the matter and sent me reeling through hours of nausea that even frequent purging was unable to quell. (There's often a lot of purging going on throughout the ceremonies.  A vomit-bucket is standard equipment for the ride.)

So why on Gaia's green earth, you may well ask, would I choose to go through that again?  Am I really a hard-core masochist?  The answer to the latter question is no, I'm not.  Nausea sucks.  Big time.  But I guess I needed the physical hardship to realise what I had to do first.  Stop hurting yourself, Grandam A. shouted at me, There's no moving forward until you reckon with that.  The ball's in your court, baby. 
The morning after my first ceremony in Peru, I was sitting in the garden of the hostel where we were staying, contemplating the previous night.  I was disappointed not to have had a mystical experience, and wondered what I was supposed to have learned from the whole thing.  I did have some lovely, light and colourful visions, but they seemed random and purposeless to me.  As I entertained these thoughts, I heard a deep, growly, non-threatening hrmmph hrmmph a short distance from me, and looked up to see a big, black German shepherd trotting straight towards me.  He lived at the hostel with one of the employees, but tended to ignore the guests and their benign attentions.  So I was a little surprised when I saw him very deliberately approaching me, as if on a mission.  He stopped directly in front of me, just a few feet from where I sat.  After staring me in the eye, he lowered his head and proceeded to vomit on the grass.  Once he was done, he walked in a large circle all around the swing where I sat, right back to where he started, and puked again.  When he was finished, he looked up at me once more, then turned and loped away.  There's no way this little incident was just a random, meaningless occurrence.  It was a sign!  (You knew that was coming, right?) And I had a pretty good idea what it meant.

Winston Churchill suffered from dark bouts of depression all his life, and referred to them as "the black dogs."  So when that big, black dog decided to pay me a visit that morning, I knew exactly what he and Grandam A. were telling me.  I'm pretty sure she sent him as a messenger, in case I hadn't gotten the message the night before.  She also decided to teach me exactly the same lesson the second time I drank her elixir, which was the day after the episode with the dog.
Our shaman had told us that no two journeys with the plant are the same.  Unfortunately, that rule of thumb did not seem to apply to me, because the second visit with Grandam was as nauseating as the first.  For some reason, and it's probably my penchant for self-flagellation, I don't learn lessons the first time, or even the second, or third... as if I were stupid or something.  It seems Grandam A. decided to give me a taste of my own medicine.  She's obviously not without a wicked sense of irony.  As a writer I suppose I should appreciate that, but it's not so easy to do when the laugh's on me.  Sheesh.
On my most recent journeys with ayahuasca, and closer to home, I knew early during the second ceremony that I wouldn't be drinking the potion a third time.  I didn't like the body I was stuck in, and Grandam refused to lift me out of it.  So I breathed as deeply as I could through the rough spots.  While thus engaged, I noticed a dark, shadowy figure hovering in the the far end of the ceremonial room.  I could barely make it out, because the room was so dark, but I could see that it was making its way towards me.  It inched along very slowly, constantly stopping and starting, as if deciding what to do.  As it got closer I could see that it was the figure of a young child, probably a girl of no more than ten. The faint, indistinct form finally stopped a few feet in front of me, and stood there briefly, until it evaporated into the surrounding blackness.  I attended the last ceremony the next night, but did not drink.  She appeared to me again, and this time I realised who she was.  She was that ubiquitous, New Age wunderkind, my "inner child."  She seemed friendlier this time, and not as tentative.  I had the distinct feeling she was there for healing as well.  I was face-face with my shadow-self.  Talk about your shades of Carl Jung.
Last year in Peru I attended three ceremonies, without drinking at the third, and felt nothing the last time.  Eventually I got bored and sleepy; so I left before I disrupted things with my snoring.  Not so this time.  Our shaman had mentioned that there are people who participate in the ceremonies without drinking that feel the effects of the plant anyway.  Perhaps they feel the energy of the people around them.  Whatever the case, I was glad to be one of those people, because I hate feeling left out.
I stayed in the circle for two hours, and felt every sigh, burp, yawn, bump and rustle of movement course through my body with corresponding intensity.  Sometimes I was certain I could feel other people's heart beats.  My body felt like a finely tuned instrument, or a tuning fork.  I vibrated in synchrony with every sound and movement.  Sharp sounds snapped and shot through me.  Soft ones felt like a massage or gentle breeze.  Even if I hadn't been able to actually hear the sounds, I could have described them nonetheless.  Okay, so I didn't "see god," nor did I meet the devil.  But at least I didn't feel left out or separate.  I felt truly connected, in tune with everything around me.  As within, so without.
Grandam's hard lesson has become more clear to me the longer I think about it.  She's a plant spirit, and a mighty potent one, so I'd been hoping for visions of flora and fauna, totems and spirit guides.  (These were my hopes, not my expectations.  Our shaman had repeatedly advised us not to expect anything.)  In retrospect I can see that Grandam had, indeed, addressed my longing to be in tune with her world, but not in the way I was expecting.  (It's hard not expect something.)  I often think of my body as a microcosm of Earth herself, and imagine that my physical condition is a reflection of what's happening in my environment.  My legion of followers will recognize that last statement as a recurring theme on this web of mine.  
Grandam A. didn't show me visions of lush vines and tropical jungle, populated with exotic birds and beasts, nor did she send me flying through the starry Cosmos.  But she did show me just how similar I am to  Mother Earth herself.  Grandam made me whirl.  And whirl.  And whirl.  You see, Mother Earth does the same thing, too.  She's always revolving on her axis, spinning through space.
I can hear Grandam laughing right now.  Like Earth herself, Grandam A. always has the last word.

The point is, I think I've finally heard what she's been telling me for so long, even before I ever invited her into my home.  I've always learned the hard way, but sooner or later (mostly later) I do learn.  Grandam A. rewarded me with the knowledge that when I truly pay attention, I'll be sensitive enough to feel what's happening at a deep, physical, vibrational level.  Once the body's clean and clear, it can serve as a vessel, and an open channel to the unseen world.  It can be a host for magic and divinity.
I now understand why Grandam told me I didn't need to drink her medicine a third time.  She told me to listen to my body, which I did, and wouldn't you know, my body was in complete accord with the wise old plant.  I was disappointed at first, and felt like a spiritual neophyte, despite being the oldest participant.  So not only did I feel physically battered, my ego was bruised, too.  Fortunately, my faith was restored at the final ceremony.  By listening to my body, and Grandam, I was able to listen with my body, all of it.  My entire body became a receiver.  It was awesome.
I'm running out of things to say now, but not because I don't have more thoughts on the matter.  I do.  But some things are best kept to oneself.  As it is, this blurb has rendered me as vulnerable as I've ever been on my little web.  I like to think it's a safe place, even though it's available for the whole world to read.  I also like to think that what I write is at least amusing, and maybe, just maybe, offers useful insights.  You know, something helpful.  Otherwise I haven't learned a thing.  Because when it's just about me, spinning New Age bafflegab in my little, but hopefully expanding universe, I'm not doing anyone any good, least of all myself.
I can't stop the wheel of fortune from turning, but I won't be a victim any more, either.  Riding the rim of that wheel is treacherous.  It's not stable, and can make you sick, or prone to injury.  That's why I'm climbing down from the that rim and putting myself smack dab in the middle of the wheel, where I can find some balance and be still for a while.  It's a lot easier there.
Many thanks to Grandam A. for her ancient, earthly wisdom - and to my wonderful shaman and brave, beautiful, fellow participants for their kindness and support. 
- G. P.

A Burning Issue

I snarled at a colleague, who's also a friend, in the bookstore where I work last week.  It wasn't so much what I said, as the way I said it.  I "put it right out there" just about as angrily as I know how.  I don't know if saying I was vicious would be overstating it, but the delivery of my comment surprised the few people who heard it, and no doubt rattled the cage of the colleague I was addressing.  Had my delivery been more sedate, the fact that it was slightly clever might have been noticed, and no doubt more effective in getting the message across.  But I was angry - very angry - and suddenly emotions that had been simmering beneath the surface erupted.

I didn't feel sorry for my outburst right away.  If anything, I felt smug and self- satisfied.  But soon afterwards I realized that I had not presented myself in the best light, even though I knew my anger was justified.  What ever happened to taking a deep breath before responding?  But this was a perfect case of spontaneous combustion.  My colleague had made a comment that sparked my pent-up, fiery feelings.  There was no room or time for slowing down to breathe, let alone think about what I was doing.
After I had time to consider my sudden outburst, I realized I owed my friend an apology.  She graciously accepted it.  That was over a week ago.  Although I still believe that my anger wasn't entirely unjustified, I'm still shocked and sorry by my response.  And that brings me to the whole point of this particular little blurb...
I got burned a few days ago, literally.  I was cooking and got a nasty little oil burn on my thumb.  It's still quite ugly, but finally starting to heal.  Can you see where I'm going with this?  Yup.  It's the old what goes around comes around thing.  You know what I mean - karma.  It's also Freud and his there are no accidents theory.  Some people might say karma and Freud aren't related in any way.  The Universe sends around karma, but we make our own accidents.  I tend to agree with that, but in this case the two are inextricably entwined.
I've observed that sooner or later I'll suffer consequences that fit my little crimes, e.g., if something's "bugging" me, I'll get bitten by an insect, or some creepy little infestation will occur.  Well, I "burned" a hole in a relationship with an inflammatory remark, and I subsequently got burned myself.  Big time.  Sounds like karma to me, and fits the pattern of my life perfectly.  But I also helped karma along, because I couldn't let go of my guilt.  It plagued me, and there was nothing I could do to let it go.  I'd apologized, but it wasn't enough.  Enter Freud.  I "accidentally" burned myself.  I found a way to punish myself for my misdemeamour.
Now that my self-inflicted injury has finally stopped hurting so much, I feel better about the whole sordid little incident with my friend.  I figure balance has been restored.  And my belief in karma has been reaffirmed - yet again.  Many people would call this sort of reasoning sheer bunk.  It's all random, they say - accidents do happen. To which I say of course they do.  My Universe includes everything, including randomness.  But if paying attention to how and why things seem to happen to me keeps me responsible for my actions, then I'll stick with that.  Call it flaky if you must, but it works for me.
- G.P.

My Gita Tante

I'm back after a long spell, and what a "spell" it's been.  It's conjured sadness, grief, some joy, and lots and lots of love.  My beloved Gita Tante, my most ardent and consistent follower, has died.  She was my biggest fan.  It hurts me to think that she'll never be sending me her thoughts about my most recent blurb, whether via email or speaking to me personally.
Gita Tante really listened to me.  She  truly heard what I had to say.  Mind you, for the last year or so, as her health declined, she wasn't visiting my little web as often.  But every once in a while, when she was strong enough to visit me online, she'd read about me right here, and I could always count on her to acknowledge my presence.  Her interest and responses to my musings was one of the reasons I have a little web at all.   Most writers, or artists or any discipline, express themselves in order to be heard.  I could always count on Gita Tante to pay attention to me.
Gita Tante was an exemplary listener.  And if you`ve been following me at all in this space, you`ll know by now that listeners are my favourite kind of people.  Her listening validated me, and her genuine interest in what I was doing and how I was feeling gave me a sense of self-worth I seldom feel so consistently from anyone else.  I suppose this sounds as if this blurb is all about me, even as I'm writing about a profound loss.  Well, that pretty much describes how Gita Tante made me feel whenever we shared time together.  She managed to make to make me feel as if, yes indeed, it was all about me, but without making me feel selfish or thoughtless.  It was strange how I could spend all my time talking about my joys and woes with Gita Tante, and still feel like a better, kinder, more considerate person for it.  How's that for casting a spell?
Time spent with her lifted my spirits.  She admired and respected me even when I hadn't done anything to deserve it.  And if I did accomplish something, no matter how big or small, she heaped an embarrassment of praises upon me.  Sure, sometimes she was over the top, but hey!  Who doesn't like being loved and appreciated once in a while?  Who doesn`t like being adored?  And I saw her do this time and again with the many people she loved, especially her children and grandchildren, nieces and nephews - the younger generations of the extended family.
Gita Tante was not only my maternal aunt, she was my Goddess Mother as well.  I can`t think of anyone who deserved that title more.  She was highly intelligent, knowledgeable, and above all, wise.  She believed that all the people she cared for - and she cared deeply for so many - were worthy of respect and admiration.  I feel truly blessed to have been one of those people.  She championed my work as a writer and actor even when I was paralyzed with doubt and despair.  She offered me respect when I had none for myself.  She believed in me, and told me so, many times.  Her love made me a stronger, better person.
I shall miss her.
- G.P.

Cleaning House

I'm checking in just because I haven't been here in a while.  It hasn't been easy for me lately.  In fact, things have been rather chaotic.  Emotional and domestic turmoil.  Stress.  Crap that clutters the mind and heart.
But it's gone now.  It's passed.  I rode out the storm.  It took a lot of will and effort to do it.  It required forgiveness on my part.  That wasn't easy, either, but I knew it was the only way to rid myself of the psychic garbage that was proliferating my life. 
I spent a couple of weeks clearing and cleaning out more stuff, both physically and metaphysically, yet again.  The longer I live, the less "stuff" I have.  I live in a clearer, cleaner space, and feel better for it.  As within, so without. 
Why don't more people get that?  Shouldn't it be obvious that the environment you create for yourself reflects who you are?  So to clean up the mess that was my life for a while, I went on a purging rampage.  (Although sometimes I still acquire new clothes.  I'm vain.  I'm an actress.  I like to change the way I look.  I can't do everything all at once.  First things first...)
If I'd been any more stressed I might have been paralyzed with fear of everything I had to do in order to fix what was wrong.  But I had no choice.  When there's a flood, you have to clean it up.  Flat tires have to be changed in order to keep moving.  So in a way, I suppose I was blessed with misfortune that forced me to get rid of what was bugging me.  But boy oh boy am I glad it's over.
So what's left?  Well, I feel a lot more free, that's for sure, and not just because I got rid of the material stuff.  As my living space gradually cleared out, so did my mind.  That's working from the outside in.  But inner work was necessary, too.  I had to forgive - big time.  That was the hardest part, but it was worth the effort, because it's made me stronger and better.
Nothing clears out anger and pain the way compassion and forgiveness do.  If you don't believe me, maybe you'll harken to the words of a great human being I quote frequently, Mahatma Gandhi.  The weak can never forgive.  Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.
Namaste.
- G.P.

Extreme Listening

Listening is much harder than talking. At least it is for me.  It's also a lot safer than talking, despite the title of this blurb.  I've never gotten into trouble for listening too well or too much, but I sure as hell have put my foot into it for talking, more times than I care to remember.

There are occasions, of course, when speaking is good and necessary, especially if it's to speak out against cruelty or injustice, or speaking up when a considered opinion helps to solve a problem, ease suffering, or just plain entertain and amuse.  But for all the times when speaking up or out is good and right, there are just as many situations, if not more, when talking is a real bummer, both for the person speaking and those who may or may not be listening.
There's all kinds of bad talking.  There's talking too much, or too loud, or so quietly that you can't be heard.  Then there's rude and obnoxious talking such as excessive, unnecessary profanity, talking out of turn, interrupting, mumbling, malicious gossiping, and talking for the purpose of insulting someone and hurting their feelings.  And surely the worst sort of speech is the kind that incites hatred and fear against individuals or whole groups of people.  Yes, there are so many ways to be rude and disagreeable when we talk.  But I can't think of a single way in which listening is rude or harmful. 
So why should listening be so much more difficult to do than talking?  You don't have to exert yourself in any way, unless you consider paying attention an onerous task.  You can do it while doing almost anything else - except talking, of course - or you can listen doing absolutely nothing but.  Sure, sometimes it's hard to pay attention to someone who's really boring and full of themselves, but listening is still a good thing.
Talking too much is a sign of deep-seated insecurity.  It's usually a need for attention.  The problem is that incessant babblers usually get the wrong kind of attention - the exact opposite sort of attention they seek.  Even when I'm not speaking too much, if I speak too quickly and without thinking, I invariably regret it.  That's because I'm not listening to myself.  When that happens, I open myself up to ridicule.  Talking about anything, whether it's personal, political, or philosophical, exposes the person who's speaking.  It reveals something about the speaker, however slight.  Opening that door means someone is sure to walk through it.  There will always be somebody who grabs any opportunity to slip in a clever, callous comment.
Yup.  Listening is a lot safer.
When a person who talks more than they listen is finally quiet and appearing to pay attention, they're usually trying to find a way to turn the conversation around and make it about them.  No matter what topic is being discussed, they're probably wondering how does this affect me?  And once they find a way to speak again - and they always do - they've managed to turn the conversation back to themselves.  I've seen it time and time again, and it always serves as a cautionary tale for a reformed talkaholic like me.  It's taught me how to listen, even if it means having to tolerate narcissistic, non-stop blabber-mouths.

Deep listening has not only helped me to help others - people who need to be heard - it's been healing for me as well.  Deep listening is about focus and attention.  It's a discipline.  It's a form of meditation that forces me to be still and quiet, and truly hear what's going on.  When I genuinely pay attention to someone, I'm able to hear what they're trying to say, even if they don't say it well.  Listening is the first step to learning.
The other day I listened to a good friend of mine go on and on and on about her plans for redoing her kitchen.  It was deadly dull, but I smiled and listened to her.  I missed a lot of the tedious details because I zoned out, i.e., stopped listening for a bit, but I patiently sat it out and stayed with her need to express herself.  She was excited about her new project, and I didn't want to take that away from her.  I paid attention to her need to be heard, rather than what sort of faucet and sink she was planning to install.  Otherwise I might have been short and cut her off.  But I didn't; I listened instead.  It was good for both of us.
I recently read an essay about deep listening by Thich Nhat Hanh, a Tibetan Buddhist monk. Deep listening, he says, teaches us patience, and patience is an expression of love, of compassion.  That means I must frequently behave compassionately towards people I really don't like at all, simply because I'm forced, by circumstance, to listen to them.  I hear their rudeness and know how wrong they are about whatever it is they're going on about, but I listen to keep the peace - and to keep my job.
I shall continue to practise talking less and listening more - and listening deeply.  Listening deeply is also about listening to my deepest self.  When I listen to myself, I do things more carefully, more thoughtfully.  I make fewer mistakes.  I get into less trouble.
The way I see it, being bored once in a while is a small price to pay for peace.
- G. P.

Be Love

The title of this blurb sucks.  I know that.  But that's what this blurb is about, so I'm going to stick with it.
A couple of days ago in yoga class the instructor was guiding us through a meditation.  As we lay on our backs, the teacher asked us to breathe the energy from our heart chakra into our entire bodies.  She asked us to imagine that every part of our body was infused with soft, loving, heart-energy.  "Don't just feel the energy in your body," she said, "be the energy.  Be the love."  Normally, when I hear new-agey stuff like the over-used, ill-defined "be love," I roll my eyes.  I mean, how the hell does someone "be love?"  But when my yoga teacher told us to be loving energy, rather than feel it, I was in such a relaxed, blissful state, I thought "Hey, I'm already there."  My body felt like a big, mushy blob of love, and it felt fabulous.
This morning I repeated the same exercise in a restorative yoga class.  Restorative yoga consists of gentle poses held for long periods of time, supported by props (cushions, blocks, straps etc.), so that the only thing exerting any effort is gravity.  So I had lots of time to imagine myself as Love.  Our instructor kept reminding us to breathe, deeply and fully, which I did.  But I was also filling myself up with love.  Or so I imagined.  After all, I'm an actress, and I can act or be anything I imagine.  Kids do it all the time when they "pretend."  If you've ever watched children as they play, you'll see some of the most committed "pretending" there is. 
Student actors perform numerous exercises for developing the imagination.  They'll be asked to pose as if  they're all sorts of things they're not: other people, animals,  inanimate objects, and a host of things in nature such as trees, flowers, mountains, winds and seas.  (Come to think of it, it happens a lot in yoga, too - upward and downward dogs, eagles, trees, mountains etc.)  So if we can act as if we're a seed growing into a flower, why can't we play at being an emotion?  And if I'm going to meditate on being an emotion, I figure love is a good one.
So that's what I did.  It was especially easy to do when I was lying on my back, arms outstretched, exposing my heart.  It's an open, vulnerable position, and all sorts of emotions can come up, and they frequently do.  To make the exercise more effective, I focussed on being an actor, which I am, who was practising yoga, which I do.  I looked as if I were in a yoga class, but I felt like I was doing a "magic as if" exercise in an actor's workshop.  It was Acting 101 all over again.
It was the best acting-cum-yoga class ever.  I took a feather-light, airy-fairy journey in my mind to find out what it is to Be Love, whilst sustaining a pose to realign my spine and stimulate the parasympathetic nervous system.  Focussing on my breathing didn't distract me from my intention to Be Love.  In fact, it made it easier.  I've taken many acting classes in my day, done a lot of exercises, and performed a number of different roles (but not as many as I would have liked), and I can't remember when I've enjoyed being something else so much.
Being love, rather than being in love, or loving, is an act of the imagination.  Humans aren't emotions.  We have emotions, and we feel emotions.  You can't see them, and you can't see the imagination, either, but that's where you go to be anything you want.  Playing with the imagination, the way actors do, allows a person to be anything.  So I've decided to spend more time pretending to be Love, just like an allegorical character in a Medieval morality play.  It's lots of fun, and it feels good - really, really good.
- G.P.