Pushing Upward Read online

  We’d take long walks down Sunset Boulevard window-shopping, people-watching, but inevitably, people would be looking at her. She always stood out! If it weren’t for Rachel’s latest attempt at auburn hair, and her oily complexion, she could have been a real stunner. Regardless of what that girl looked like or what she was wearing, though, just being in her presence would make my day. Her dry, sardonic sense of humor always made me laugh.

  Another reason I liked Rachel was because she didn’t take her acting as seriously as I did. For me, acting had become my salvation. It allowed me to be anybody but me. It also gave me an outlet for my creativity, which was bursting at the seams, and an art form I’d begun to respect and had become good at. For Rachel, it was simply a diversion, something to have fun with. This was good for our relationship. It prevented competition.

  She was also the only person with whom I could share my deepest spiritual pursuits. This was very important to me.

  We knew there had to be more to this mundane existence than getting up, going to work, coming home, eating, and going to sleep day after day. We knew there had to be a bigger purpose, a perspective on life that was deeper and more profound than what we had been taught. We just didn’t know where to look, let alone where to find it. We thought about going to church or to a synagogue, but we didn’t want “religion.” We wanted something more. Something beyond the doctrine and lectures on guilt and our sins. Beyond the preachers’ and rabbis’ interpretation of who they thought God was. We wanted our own truth, our own understanding. And we wanted it—yesterday!

  Then, one day, in God’s benevolent way, destiny revealed itself … once again. I discovered an awesome book—and its uncanny ability to unravel the mystery of our lives.

  I was strolling down Melrose Avenue one day and smelled an intriguing aroma coming from a small yellow building. The quaint little house had been renovated into a commercial store. The wooden sign nailed to the building read: THE BODHI TREE BOOK AND TEA SHOP. I followed the scent and walked into a magical room filled with books and crystals, plants, and hanging chimes.

  The Bodhi Tree was funky—a let-your-hair-down kind of place where people could walk in day or night and be assured of soft classical music playing in the background. As you strolled through the store, the fragrance of nag champa incense filled your senses, enticing you to stay while you searched for the book of your dreams. Hot tea and honey were kept warm in copper teakettles for customers to sip on as they meandered through the airy aisles. And the salespeople were never pushy. They’d let you sit for hours, let you get lost in the pages you were reading for as long as you wanted. I felt so comfortable in this bliss-filled haven; I could have made myself cozy in a corner and lived there forever.

  Ambling among the aisles that first day, I felt this magnetic attraction to the Eastern Religion/Philosophy section. I gazed at the crowded shelves. Studying the titles, wondering which book would call out to me, I noticed a yellow-bound cover with a black square on its spine. The longer I stared at the book, the more it began to illuminate, almost sparkle. My eyes widened as I examined the words: The I Ching, or Book of Changes, written in gold italics. Compelled to take the book off the shelf, I began to leaf through its pages. The words seemed strangely familiar, expansive. I found a seat on a pillowed wooden bench. And as I sat there scanning the thin sheets with their tiny print, the manager appeared at my side.

  “Not everyone can grasp these teachings. They’re very subtle.”

  I looked up at her, surprised that anyone had noticed me, let alone noticed me reading this book. Her face was both kind and austere. Her blonde hair, in a high ponytail, swayed to and fro as she spoke. Then she stooped down to my eye level, and with her hands on her knees said, “The I Ching is an ancient Chinese text whose origins can be traced back thousands of years. It was used as a decision-making tool by famous emperors and sages. Today people use it all over the world.”

  “Really?” I was totally impressed with her knowledge, and the fact that she was sharing it with me.

  “The I Ching,” she went on, “is based on the philosophies of Taoism and Confucianism. It offers us a way to see into difficult situations, especially those emotionally charged ones where at times our rational knowledge fails us. It helps us to get in touch with both our inner and outer worlds, allowing us to make more accurate decisions. The I Ching can do this because it’s an oracle.”

  “What’s an oracle?” I asked, embarrassed that I wasn’t as well versed in the subject.

  “An oracle translates a problem or question you’re having into an image, like your dreams do. It helps you change the way you think about your situation and connects you with the inner forces that are shaping it.”

  I stood up, because my behind hurt—and I wanted to continue this discussion on my feet. She rose, too. Face-to-face, she continued: “The magic happens when you ask the I Ching a question and it reveals the answer. But what’s really fascinating is when it answers a question you didn’t even know was in your heart.”

  Intrigued by the woman’s intensity, I opened the book to the foreword, written by Carl Jung, the renowned psychoanalyst. I didn’t want to be rude, but I couldn’t help myself. I started to read silently:

  The I Ching insists upon self-knowledge throughout. The method by which this is to be achieved is open to every kind of misuse, and is therefore not for the frivolous-minded and immature; nor is it for intellectuals and rationalists. It is appropriate only for thoughtful and reflective people who like to think about what they do and what happens to them—a predilection not to be confused with the morbid brooding of the hypochondriac …

  The I Ching does not offer itself with proofs and results; it does not vaunt itself, nor is it easy to approach. Like a part of nature, it waits until it is discovered. It offers neither facts nor power, but for lovers of self-knowledge, of wisdom—if there be such—it seems to be the right book.

  The manager had left. I closed the oracle and walked immediately to the counter to buy the book. Money was tight, but there was no way I was walking out of there without it.

  The manager came back over to me as I waited in line. “You’re going to love this book, trust me. I don’t make a decision without it.” She handed me a flyer. “Here’s some information on how to ask your question. It’s up to you to interpret the I Ching’s answer. It just takes practice. If you go to the back of the book, it explains how to throw the coins.”

  I shook her hand and thanked her profusely.

  “One last thing,” she added. “Feel free to ask a question and open the book randomly to any page. It’s a different experience than throwing the coins. Oh, and don’t be turned off by the male-centric presentation. It was written millennia ago.”

  Minutes after opening my apartment door, I grabbed an apple from the fridge, the only thing left that was fresh, plopped onto my bed, and did my very best to read the I Ching from beginning to end. This, of course, was an insane proposition since it contained over seven hundred pages. But I continued reading until three in the morning and still couldn’t put the thick yellow book down. The commentaries on the sixty-four archetypal images, referred to as hexagrams, were beyond fascinating. I wanted to learn about all sixty-four—push myself to read the entire text—but I had to stop, give my eyes a break, absorb what I’d read so far. Finally, I closed the book, closed my eyes, and lay there in awe of the honesty and depth of these pages.

  I’d never read anything that explained so clearly how we, as human beings, could live consciously in the world, how we could create a life of integrity and balance. I’d always jumped into things without thought of consequences, like everyone else I knew. It wasn’t until after the experience that I’d “get it” and think: Why did I ever do that? But something in this book, something in the very act of reading this book, showed me that if I didn’t slow down and think about every single action I took, before I took it, my life would never improve. Once I started throwing the coins, asking the right questions, and get
ting answers beyond my limited understanding, I began to see the sheer brilliance of this book.

  I shared my discovery with Rachel. She thought it was the best thing since batik. It wasn’t long before we became I Ching addicts, spending hours on the phone talking about our latest question and the meaning of the “throw,” the answer. The I Ching became a very useful advisor, helping us resolve all kinds of problems and questions in our lives. It also confirmed what we, at times, did not want to admit was true. We did not take the I Ching lightly, nor did we use it without due respect. Opening its pages became a sacred, religious event …

  Finally, she’s off the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour. I’m going ballistic. Can you spare a few minutes before I jump into the San Andreas Fault?”

  “I’m polishing up the brass on Cleopatra’s breastplates.”

  She’s in rare form.

  “Tomorrow I get to work with the serpent. There’s a birthday party for one of the board members of American Express. He apparently loves looking at women who fondle dangerous animals.”

  “Is the snake going to be drugged?” I asked.

  “Of course it’s going to be drugged. I’m the one who’s gonna bite if he gets out of line. So? Tell me what happened with the interviews?”

  “Well, I went on an African safari, I was a mouse in a magazine maze, and I met a horny toad with disgustingly long nostril hairs who came way too close to raping me.”

  “Karma,” Rachel stated matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, here we go!”

  “Negative past-life actions. You obviously did something in a former life that’s bringing these situations to you now.”

  “Great! I have to suffer now because of something I did in another life?”

  “Are you kidding? By the sound of it, you could have been Hitler or Attila the Hun or the bride of Dracula. If you don’t burn up these karmas now,” Rachel went on, chomping on a carrot, “you’ll have to come back a few more times till you do.”

  “Well, that really motivates me to go on living! Anyway—I’m supposed to meet this woman tomorrow. She sounds like she’s sixty. Maybe the ad wasn’t such a good idea. Only … I just received my last eviction notice, and Martha called yesterday saying she couldn’t afford me anymore, and I have a grand total of seventy dollars to my name. I’m drinking way too much caffeine, and I’ve gained fifteen pounds.”

  “I know. I’ve seen you. You look like hell.”

  “Thanks for your support!”

  “Look, Sandra, we’ve been through this a zillion times. Slow down—the decision isn’t in your hands. Allow the universe to pull you in the right direction. Maybe this woman’s the right one. How do you know? You haven’t even met her. Why don’t you come over and we’ll throw the I Ching?”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’m catatonic.”

  “All right. Give me half an hour. I’ll come over there. But first I have to stop at the store, buy some snake treats.”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  I cleaned up the apartment. Well, I threw the dirty clothes that were sitting in the middle of the room under the chair and dusted the furniture with paper towels. I pushed books and magazines into the closet and rinsed off the pile of dishes sitting in the sink. I lit my favorite blueberry candle, a stick of nag champa incense, and twenty or so assorted other candles set in small pieces of tinfoil around the room. I placed the two pillows from my bed on the floor in front of the old oak table and fluffed them up so they’d look nice and new. After carefully, gingerly, closing the Indian-bedspread curtains, for fear they might fall off the pole, I sat down on the creaky rocking chair.

  I couldn’t stop fidgeting. Instead of going to the fridge again to eat something I didn’t need, I picked up The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson from the side table and tried to focus on Emily’s words while I waited for Rachel. Emily was so lucky. She could be a recluse, write poetry all day, and never have to worry about earning a living.

  Rachel arrived at my door in less than twenty minutes. Without saying a word, knowing how important it was to maintain silence before we threw the coins, we simply hugged, sat down on the pillows, and took a few deep breaths. Slowly, silently, respectfully, I brought out the I Ching, the tiny brocade pouch with the coins, and a legal-size writing pad from under my bed, and placed them all on the table. I paused a moment, to respect the fundamental nature of the oracle, and then opened the pouch, allowing the three dimes to cascade onto the tabletop.

  In ancient times, it was customary to throw yarrow stalks when consulting the I Ching. As sacred gifts of the vegetable kingdom, these stalks were considered to be related to the source of life and, when held firmly in one’s palm, would take on the qualities of one’s individual vibration. Since yarrow stalks were not easy to find, especially in L.A., coins (pennies, nickels, or dimes) were suggested.

  Rachel stopped chewing her gum and watched intently as I placed the dimes in the sweaty palm of my hand. I closed my eyes, knowing how I phrased the question was as important as the question itself. Then I focused my entire being on the question: Should I meet this woman, Emma? I repeated the question silently again and again, shook the dimes, and then threw the silver coins onto the tabletop. Depending on the configuration of the six throws necessary to form the hexagram, the numeric value assigned to each head or tail would signify either a broken or an unbroken line.

  The first throw was an eight, two heads and a tail:

  A broken line. Rachel drew the two dashes on the yellow legal pad.

  The second throw was a seven, one head and two tails:

  A straight line. Rachel drew the straight solid line.

  The third throw was another seven:

  The fourth, fifth, and sixth throws were all eights, broken lines:

  After Rachel had drawn all the lines, one above the other starting from the bottom, I looked up the identifying hexagram in the back of the book. It was number 46:

  46. Shêng / Pushing Upward

  Above: K’un, The Receptive, Earth

  Below: Sun, The Gentle, Wind, Wood

  This pushing upward is associated with effort, just as a plant needs energy for pushing upward through the earth. That is why this hexagram, although it is connected with success, is associated with effort of the will … PUSHING UPWARD indicates … a vertical ascent—a direct rise from obscurity and lowliness to power and influence … The individual … must go to see authoritative people. Fear not … success is assured. But he must set to work, for activity … brings good fortune.

  We looked at each other, eyes wide in disbelief, and then Rachel, in her inimitable style, popped a huge bubble.

  Chapter 4

  The images help us to know the things,

  and the oracle helps us to know the future.

  I contemplated the Pushing Upward commentary for many hours and realized that calling Emma was not only necessary for my growth, but an inevitable part of my destiny. Fear not, it said. One must go to see authoritative people. Success is assured. A direct rise from obscurity and lowliness to power and influence. How could I doubt such a positive throw? How could I question that the next Chapter of Sandra Billings’ life was going to be a rising ascension, instead of a plummet downward?

  The next morning, I kept checking the time. I figured nine o’clock was a reasonable hour, so I picked up the receiver and called Emma.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, this is Sandra. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Not at all. I’m out of bed early.”

  “Well, um, I’d like to meet you today, if that’s okay?”

  She paused. “Yes, that will be fine.”

  “Can we meet this morning?” I asked anxiously.

  “This morning?” She paused again. “Certainly. What time?”

  “How’s eleven-thirty?” I wanted to jump in my car as soon as I hung up. But I didn’t want to sound too pushy.

 
“Eleven-thirty is good. I’m staying at the Westbrook Retirement Home in West Hollywood. Do you know where that is?”

  “Uh … yeah, I think so. It’s on Sunset, near the karate school, right?”

  “Yes, a few blocks past the school, only on the right. There is a parking lot behind the building. I’m in room seventeen.”

  “Behind the building. Number seventeen. Got it. Okay. See you at eleven-thirty.”

  The Westbrook Retirement Home? I must be legally insane. Beads of sweat formed instantly on my forehead. Maybe her apartment was being painted, and she was staying at “the home” temporarily. Maybe she was visiting a friend. My throat clamped down in a viselike grip.

  I was never good at waiting. What was I going to do for two and a half hours? Riding high on my nervousness and my inability to think of anything to do that might be constructive while I waited, I appeased my feelings of insecurity by devouring the three remaining orange Creamsicles that were in the freezer, along with two white-powdered doughnuts and some chocolate-chip cookie dough heated up in the toaster oven. There’s nothing better than soft, undercooked chocolate-chip cookie dough to make one’s nerves relax. Nothing!

  As usual, I felt bloated afterward and didn’t want to gain any weight, so I went to the bathroom, stuck my finger down my throat, and threw up everything I had just eaten. When there was nothing left in my stomach but what was given to me at birth, I brushed my teeth and grabbed the bottle of eye drops from the medicine cabinet. Hiding the red veins where the whites of my eyes used to be had became an art form I had mastered. I applied white pancake shadow, eyeliner, and mascara to camouflage the puffiness around my eyes, and smudged apricot rouge onto my cheeks. My lips glistened from the last of my lip gloss, and when I saw my reflection in the mirror, I looked just like one of those puffy-lipped models from Vogue magazine. Well, almost. My hair was in dire need of a cut, and I had to remember not to let Emma see my cracked nails.