Twenty years ago, when Marianne Williamson was so successful
in Los Angeles, I went to all her lectures and did A Course in Miracles a
couple of times through. Then she
went away for many years. When she
returned to L.A. just over two years ago, I started the Course Workbook again,
and have attended every one of Marianne’s lectures and workshops.
Marianne often says ACIM prides itself on being practical; so
this idea of taking the spiritual principles and applying them - can A Course
in Miracles work when you are arrested in a sting for prostitution?
I worked for many years in music doing graphic design,
marketing and promotion. When the
music industry collapsed a few years ago, and after a couple of years of getting
no work, I had to let go of my career, and did a practical inventory to
determine what do next. I now do several
things: DJ-ing, graphic design, photography, handyman work, cleaning and organizing,
refinishing furniture, reading exams for the disabled, massage and body
grooming. It might sound
pretentious, but I realized (through ACIM) that my goal on earth is to help
people (extend love), and each of these activities meets this criteria.
The other day, though, one of these part-time jobs landed me
behind bars.
The moment the undercover cops threw me to the ground and
handcuffed me, I began praying. I
was praying to be safe. And, to be
honest, I was praying (more like begging) to go back in time five minutes and
make a different decision. The
girl who met me on the sidewalk— in front of the building where I would soon be
arrested— seemed nice and I was just being polite, a common Canadian trait. I thought she wanted a massage, she said
she wanted a massage; I had absolutely no intention of having sex with her.
“Tell it to the
judge.”
The quick realization that she was not who she was
pretending to be, ACIM reminds me, does not mean that she is not a good, or
innocent person, and I am trying hard not to judge her. She and her team are just doing a job; luring
people in under (it seems to me) flimsy and/or false pretenses, and arresting
them.
Thirty minutes later, they’re on to the next one. They don’t know my name, I’m merely a
statistic for their monthly quota.
One of the herd. They don’t
know or care what happens to me, or what effect this will have on my life.
Thirty minutes later, I am in a holding cell downtown, handcuffed,
with no money, no phone, no shoelaces and no idea what just happened. This incident will be with me, haunt
me, upset me for the rest of my life.
It will be pondered, re-told, hushed away, hidden in a box, an
embarrassment. And being from
another country, I could actually be deported. After living in L.A. for nearly 23 years, I have no place to
go back to in Canada. They may as
well ship me to Mexico or Germany.
At least, in Canada I can speak the language (plus there’s socialized
health care).
Plus I am now facing a minimum of $4000 in lawyer fees, or
more if it goes to trial.
AND I’m out of one of my more lucrative jobs.
So this girl - I must see her as a beautiful innocent child
of God. I have to assume she is
doing something she feels is important.
Snagging people off the streets who illegally massage other people and putting
them behind bars (or deportation) “where they belong”. I have to assume that she thinks she is
doing the best for all concerned. This is her career; no one is forcing her to do this, it must
be her choice.
Marianne would say, when you can’t see it, pray: Lord,
I cannot see the innocence in this person. I know it must be there, so I surrender my thoughts about her
to You.
Lord, I can’t see the
purpose in this situation, so I surrender my thoughts about this to You. I am willing to see this differently.
I am not a victim of
the world I see. Lord, I can’t see
that now, because I sure feel like a victim right now. But yes, I am willing to
see this differently. I am more
than willing. I am begging to see
this differently.
In jail, I am stripped of everything but my clothes. I have no idea what to expect. I have never been arrested before. I am terrified that I will be
deported. I am allowed access to a
phone, but in the age of cell phones that are smarter than you, I previously had
no need to and therefore can’t remember anyone’s phone number. I have no idea how long I might be in
jail. It’s Friday night. There
is no court until Monday morning. I
will probably be here at least that long. OMFG.
I have things planned for that evening: a quick and easy massage
client, $120 in my pocket, hit the gym, and then a movie. A good kick off to the weekend. The next day, I have several appointments, errands and
obligations. Sunday, I am to pick
my cousin Barbara at LAX. I have
no way to call her. I have no way
to even check what time she is coming.
Even if I could remember a phone number to have someone pick her up, I still
would have no idea what her phone number is in Canada. I picture her standing on the sidewalk at
LAX with her luggage, calling my cell phone, no answer, no idea what is going
on. Maybe eventually taking a cab
to my house, MAYBE finding a key, VERY confused and frightened in a city where
she knows only one person, and no way to find me.
I am terrified that I will be deported. What
happens if they keep me until Monday morning and then put me on a bus to
Winnipeg Monday afternoon?
Would I be allowed to go home and get my stuff? What would I do about my cat? What would happen to my possessions? Could I somehow get everything shipped
to Canada? How much would that cost? And my truck. I’d left it parked on Wilshire in Koreatown, my camera,
wallet, iPad, laptop, and jacket, all inside, on the seat. If it sits there all night, would someone
break into it and steal my electronics and wallet? In the morning, when there is no parking allowed, my truck
would get ticketed and towed. Where
would they tow it to? How would I
get my truck back? My wallet is in
my truck; how would I get my wallet back?
Tremendous anxiety begins to completely overwhelm me. I wonder what would happen if I started
to cry. I haven’t cried in fifteen years.
So I think, as I often do: What would Marianne say?
The only thing I need
to be saved from is my insane thinking about this, which would keep me in
pain. None of this is real.
This feels very real.
The handcuffs on my wrists feel very real. This feels real on the mortal plane, but I know that my true
Self (with a capital S) cannot be harmed here. OK. Breathe. I’m not sure how reassuring that is right now.
All of this is
happening in my head. All my fears
and worries are about what could possibly happen in the future. I can’t do anything about the past. I can’t do anything about the future.
Right now, I am alone, locked in a small concrete room,
sitting on a metal bed, with a very thin army blanket; if there were even a slight breeze in here, it would blow right through
me. There is no breeze, however. There is a metal toilet/sink combo attached
to the wall. Nothing in here can
hurt me. And nothing outside
myself can save me. I am locked in
here and cannot leave. I have
literally NO OPTIONS. So I may as
well be here in this moment, rather than worrying about what possibly could
happen in the future, rather than wishing I could go back in time those five
minutes and tell the girl on the sidewalk, “No, thanks, I have to get to the
gym.”
Marianne quotes Blaise Pascal, “All the problems in the
world stem from our inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” Okay, so here I
am in a room with nothing but my thoughts. Let’s do this.
I try to shut my mind down. I take a deep breath.
I listen for Marianne’s voice:
I see a little ball of golden
light. I see it grow larger
and larger until it covers the entire inner vision of the room. I see the light spill out into the
hallway and into the street, surrounding the building.
There is a rectangular slot in the door and I can see men
outside in the hallway, in the booking department, the policemen and other
prisoners, many of whom appear to be in much worse condition than I am. I see each of these people as innocent
children of God. I blast them with
love and light. I pray for the
other prisoners, who are probably not having their best day either. Although, who am I to know? It is clear that in the scheme of
things, within 100 feet of where I am sitting, there are others who are in much
worse predicaments.
And, they don’t have the luxury of Marianne talking to them
in their heads, attempting to calm them down.
Part of my daily morning meditation— and every time I leave
the house, meet a client, enter a room, or get on the freeway— is, “May I be an
instrument of light to every person I see, talk to or think about.” I surround myself in white light and
protection, and a small regulation grey blanket. In the cell I lie down and try to sleep (which proves to be
impossible) and pray for God to keep me safe and to please allow me to be released soon.
This all feels so wrong though. Am I a criminal?
Am I a prostitute? I had no intention of having sex with
that woman. She replied to my online
ad via text; I thought she was a guy who wanted a massage. I agreed to a massage. Standing on Wilshire, she never
mentioned the word, “massage.” Or
sex. Confounding, vexing,
unfathomable…
There are no clocks, no TV, no radio, no newspaper, no
magazines, no iPad, no cell phone
- nothing to do, nothing to read, nothing to look at except either the blank industrial
yellow concrete wall or the inside of my eyelids. I have no idea what time it is. No one says anything to me. There is a constant murmur of voices outside, but I can’t
understand a word. I decide there is
nothing I can do, so there is no point in planning. In that, there is a relative wave of freedom. For some reason
unbeknownst to me, the universe wants me to be here. That seems pretty clear, because at this point there are no
options. I must sit quietly in a
room alone with my thoughts.
And I must control my thoughts, because when I let them get
away, they go into fear, and I start to hyperventilate.
Hours later, there is a knock on the door and the guard says,
“Get up, they are releasing you.” I sign a small blue form, which looks like nothing
more than a speeding ticket, and they give me back my phone and shoelaces and
car keys. “There’s the door.” I have no idea where I am. I tell the lady at the door that I need
to get to Wilshire and Vermont. She
says it’s too far to walk, but she waves, “it’s that way.” I step out into the night.
It’s 4am and I’m traversing downtown. I don’t stop to put my shoelaces back in
my sneakers. I just walk as fast
as I can. I want to get away. If I walk fast enough maybe I can make
it never happen. I just want to
get to my truck and back home. I
don’t know where I am going. I’m a
little scared, but the relief of having being released is overwhelming. If
I can just find a hotel, they will have cabs in front, and I can get back to my
truck, which hopefully hasn’t been broken into. WHY did I just get it detailed? Because Barbara was coming, and I wanted it to look nice and
it looks so brand new. WHY did I
leave my laptop on the seat? Because I thought I’d be back in an hour. And the largest question: WHY did my angels,
my spirits, my instincts not warn me that something was amiss with this woman who
had started chatting me up on the sidewalk several hours earlier.
This one I can’t get past.
I had done my Workbook lesson that morning (and every
morning). My prayer, every morning
is, “Where would You have me go?
What would You have me do? What would You have me say, and to whom?” I’ve been clean and sober for decades, and
try at all times to be quiet enough to hear the small still voice for God. I have a great therapist and a
wonderful spiritual advisor/astrologer.
I’ve spent years studying A Course in Miracles, Science of Mind, Seth, Ramtha,
Louise Hay, Shirley MacLaine, Esther and Jerry Hicks, Richard Bach, John Gray, Wayne
Dyer, et al. I’m supposedly all
spiritual and in touch with my feelings and senses and open to the whispers of
the angels: “Don’t turn down that
street,” and I avoid hitting a little old lady. “Don’t go out to a
movie tonight,” and I end up being home and getting an important phone
call. Those messages I get. Those messages I pay attention to.
But when I’m just being polite to this young Latina girl on
the sidewalk, saying, “Okay, I’ll give you a massage,” - not because I’m
interested, but because I’m being a nice person. And yes, I can use the money. Yes, it was confusing. But there were no alarm bells going
off in the back of my head: “Just say no. This is a trap. Don’t do this. Just walk away.” Nothing.
A Course in Miracles would say, “Blessed are those who
believe when they cannot see.” There is a reason for all this. Lord, I cannot see the
reason for all this, but I am willing to see this differently. Lord, do not allow me to close my heart
to this woman, these cops who arrested me, the lawyers who want thousands of
dollars to “fix it,” the people who will judge me or discriminate against me
because I now have a criminal record, and am “in the system.” When I get pulled over for making an
illegal U-turn, the arrest record will come up.
“I am heir to the laws of the world that I identify with.” In that world, I am a criminal and a
prostitute. I know my true Self is neither of these things. Can I choose not to identify with that
world, when every computer associated with this incident will want to prove me
wrong?
“The only righteous way to respond is to realize this is a
call for love on their part.” Lord, please allow me to see these people through
the eyes of Jesus, who would stand back and say, “I like ‘em!”
I am not a victim of the world.
I must take 100% responsibility for this.
All things are echoes of the voice for God.
These people were sent from central casting.
“All who are destined to meet shall meet and all who meet
are destined to meet.” It is up to
me whether they are my crucifier or savior, depending on what I choose to be to
them. Can I choose to be a savior
to this undercover cop who lured me in with a lie and had me arrested? How could I possibly be a savior to
her? Can she be a savior to
me? It feels right now that I am being
crucified.
I guess I am a savior to her because I am a collar for her,
one of several that evening. She
can send in her monthly report: “I arrested 37 deviants that evening. I cleaned up the city of illicit back
rubs.”
Who do I have to be to be a person who can be bigger than
this, who can laugh it off? Who
can say, “I can absorb the loss,” of thousands of dollars in lawyer’s fees and
even more in lost income?
Right now, it doesn’t seem fair. It’s hitting where it hurts - in the pocket book, and in the
threat of being deported and losing my life here.
But I am willing to let go of my perception of this
situation.
I am willing to see this differently.
I found a cab, on some dark street downtown. I wondered, if he knew I had no money,
would he stop and pick me up? But
he did. He took me to Wilshire and
after a few false stops (I had been through a lot and was a little disoriented)
we found my truck, safe and sound, everything intact. I drove home and was
never so happy to turn into my driveway, turn the key into my front door, feed
my cat, climb into my bed, and say good night to this day…
©2012 Rod Reynolds RocketManLA.com
