Refusal of the Call

It was the Chinese year of the rabbit, and I was living in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains – the prior Fall season had been defined by a soaring, chaotic mania that eventually gave way to the quiet grace of humiliation in the Spring. It was the kind of humbling experience that doesn’t just break you; it plants you back into the Earth, but I was fortunate to adopt a sweet goldendoodle named Daisy during this time.

I remember the chill of Thanksgiving in rural Virginia. I was at a Whole Foods, loading a Christmas tree onto my car, when I met Rose (pseudonym). She was a California transplant, like myself, but she carried a warmth that felt much older than her years. When she noticed Green Tara – the Buddhist goddess of compassion – on my car dashboard, the air between us changed. I thought it was rare to find a spiritual seeker in the quiet pockets of the rural South, and I sensed immediately that her depth was a treasure forged in her own private fires.

During the first week of the new year, we saw each other again after one of my Jiu Jitsu classes. There I was, still in my gi, asking Rose for a first date. What followed was less of a courtship and more of a spiritual collision between souls who may have met in another life – a romance where Yang finally meets Yin.

I once told Rose she was a dragonfly. I saw her then as I see her now: a creature of iridescent wings – radiant and beautiful – but destined to hover and dart, never to rest in one place for long. In state of manic bliss devoid of empathy, I even convinced Rose to tattoo on her back a dragonfly with my name (first and last) as the signature. At the time, I was emerging from my own abyss, and I insecurely clung to Rose with a dangerous hunger – a mixture of spiritual inspiration and a very human, very raw desire.

To keep the dream alive, I chased the sun to Florida. Rose followed, despite the heartache of having to leave her son behind in Virginia – a weight I still carry in my conscience today. We spent those months in the thick, blistering humidity of a Florida summer. Entire days were spent fly fishing in the alligator infested lakes – the locals looking at us with the kind of curiosity you only saw at freak shows in the 19th century. We swam in every pristine springs within driving distance, foraged for psychedelic mushrooms (unsuccessful), rope swung into rivers with enthusiasm like we were virgins. It was a life of random complexity, yet radical simplicity: my goldendoodle, Daisy, the cheapest thrills, and the most profound presence I have ever known.

But truth is often found in the rubble of a fire. I had stood at the edge of the abyss and stared my Dragon in the eye. I held the sword, but I lacked the courage to use it. Instead of slaying the old Self, I retreated. I chose the familiar safety of pleasure and the quiet anesthesia of avoiding pain.

I thought I was returning to “normal,” but Rose’s eventual departure was the actual bell tolling. I had refused the call, but the journey had already begun. This book – Beautifully Ruined – is a memoir of my journey from deconstruction to reconstruction, and hopefully with an act of Grace, my integration.