Christmas Chakra Cards
I envision a beautiful Christmas card project. I will make dozens of beautiful Christmas cards with a different chakra symbol on each one. I will analyze each recipient and figure out which chakra they have excesses or deficiencies in. Based on that, I’ll make their card.
“So it seems like you’re giving them compliments, but you’re actually analyzing people and covertly judging them,” said the Boatman.
“No. I’m picking the chakra that’s best for them. People who are moving get the root chakra. That’s not mean. It’s helpful.”
“Sounds kind of like a smug Mean Girl criticism,” he says.
I work on the cards at a “Drink and Draw” evening at the Foggy Goggle.
|All the Chakra Shapes|
I trace the chakra symbols that I have already traced in pencil, in black marker and pen. The Boatman, a real artist, works on his brilliant comic series called “In the Future.” In the future, scientists are going to make a cute pink creature that eats our garbage and pees and poops some delicious edible matter. So the pink creature is going to save the world, and also be a loving companion for humans. The other real artists at the drink and draw are working on fancy graphics and/or superheroes. They are talking about superheroes and Dr. Stranger, or maybe it’s Dr. Strange, or Dr. Strangelove. I only like comic books that aren’t about superheroes.
I smudge the ink across one of my moula bandha root chakra cards. It looks amateur and I feel deeply disappointed in myself. Now the real artists are talking about airports.
“I just hate the Chicago airport.”
“O’Hare? Me too. Can’t stand it.”
“There’s nowhere to sit.”
“I know. I just hang out at the bar right inside security. They see me so often, they can’t believe I don’t live in Chicago. I keep telling them I’m just always here for business.”
“I love Chicago. You know, I prefer it to New York. I really do.”
“Oh totally. Absolutely. Except for the airport.”
I check my blackberry. My dying aunt has sent me an email. A couple of weeks earlier, I had sent her an email about my recent and greatest accomplishments. One of them was my blogpost about the three things to make theworld a better place. My dying aunt congratulates me on finding the Boatman, but scolds me for putting up too much information on my blog. She says some things are not meant to go online and that my indecency has probably prevented me from being employed in the past and will continue to do so in the future. I feel deeply wounded. My chakra cards suck and my blog, which I once took moderate pride in, has sabotaged my entire life. Also, I have never been to the Chicago airport, I have never visited Chicago, and at this point I probably never will. I tell the Boatman that I have to leave right away.
It is his fault that the blog is indecent because one of his ways to make the world a better place is to have better sex ed. To illustrate this, I posted a picture of myself with my vibrator that he bought me. In the future, I will not send this link to my relatives.
|As fate would have it, my relatives aren't particularly interested in my pelvis|
Over the next couple of weeks, I colour in the chakra cards with Crayola markers. Then I complain that they looked juvenile and amateur. The Boatman suggests that I try watercolours. This turns out a little better; however, I still berate myself for not producing something worthy of Martha Stewart's praise. Although I’d intended to mass produce these cards and send happy chakra wishes to a whole bunch of people I haven’t kept in touch with, I end up giving out around twenty, to close family, co-workers, and friends I know I’ll run into.
I send a purple crown chakra to my aunt. It says Merry Christmas, Love, Erica. And that’s it.
To everyone I missed, maybe it’s not too late, or maybe next year, I’ll try and start earlier. Or maybe and hopefully, your chakras are already all set.
|The Leftover Chakra Cards. Now I realize that they are actually kind of pretty.|
For three weeks, the children practice four songs for the Christmas Concert. Jingle Bells, A Winter Wonderland, Frère Jacques, and Il neige. The entire program takes about four and a half minutes. We rehearse twice a day. During rehearsals, the children sing exuberantly, waving their arms in enthusiastic gestures and making big crocodile claps. The day of the concert, the gym is filled with parents, grandparents, small babies and other siblings. Parents point their i-phones and cameras at their children. The children stare back and sing nothing.
A couple Fridays ago, at the Boatman’s work party, I stand in a group of three people and yabber away in my typical machine gun style. The Boatman’s father comes up behind me, puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Erica always says exactly the right thing, doesn’t she?”
Last Saturday, we went to the annual fancy family dinner at the Bicycle Thief. I sit on the corner of our table next to the Boatman’s father and ask him if he would mind if I watched his hip replacement surgery that is happening on January 3rd. The Boatman’s father says to ask the boss, his wife and the Boatman's mother. The Boatman says that this means no.
Happy Holidays from the Exuberant Bodhisattva
My Pelvis, unreplaced for the moment: @mypelvicfloor
Festive Posts from Christmas Past:Yuletime Sacred Fire
Sacred Fire, Part Two (highly recommended by my biggest fans)
Christmas Eve Joy
Poopy Mango Babywipes and the First Day of Christmas (contains some nudity)
Christmas Eve Joy
Grandma's Groin and the Shitty Christmas Parties, Part One
Grandma's Groin and the Shitty Christmas Parties, Part Two
Grandma's Groin and the Shitty Christmas Parties, Part Three
I LET GO